


The Long Hunt

by paxbanana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 13:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxbanana/pseuds/paxbanana
Summary: After losing her protection in Dorne, Myrcella Baratheon must travel north. Winterfell is the last place she would expect to find protection, but it is also the only place in the world left for a bastard Lannister. Myrcella may not find happiness there, but dead girls can never be happy.





	The Long Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Mix of book and [early] show (obviously with Myrcella alive but not sent back to King’s Landing)—and this will be done vaguely. Definitely allows more time between the end of books and adulthood, will contain 1% of the book characters, and 0% of the political intrigue. Arya is described as she was in the books, though I do very much love Maisie Williams. It's not as polished as I'd like, but it's so dang long and pretends to have an ending so I thought I'd post it.

News that Princess Arianne was visiting the Water Gardens stirred Myrcella’s heart into fear and joy. A servant had interrupted her normal afternoon ocean swim to deliver the message. Quickly she accepted the linen wrap a servant draped around her shoulders and bent to kiss the head of one of the foster girls. She shooed the children back towards the gardens. She couldn’t remember their names, but all of the children here knew her. Myrcella had been here, her only company the children and their wardens, long enough to see one name-day—her eighteenth—pass by. What was once a beautiful sanctuary had become her prison ever since the ending of the great war. The princess’s visit meant her confinement might be over.

Myrcella missed Sunspear and the royal family. She missed Trystane and Arianne and even the Sand Snakes. Unlike Arianne, one or two of the Sand Snakes came by from time to time. Before her banishment to this place, she’d ridden daily with Elia, and Nymeria would take her to the public pools of Sunspear and teach her to swim.

Being exiled here was like losing her family all over again.

Myrcella was washed and dressed in time to receive the princess at her arrival. Despite Myrcella’s fears, after Arianne dismounted, the princess greeted her with a gentle smile and a long embrace. Myrcella didn’t want to seem weak, but she sank into the embrace. Arianne smelled like flowers and spices, and her body was soft against Myrcella’s. As she always did, the princess touched her scarred cheek with a tight look of pity. Myrcella turned away in shame, directing her eyes across the pink stone and towards the white-sanded beach in the distance.

Arianne’s finger beneath her chin redirected her to look into the princess’s eyes. “I was going to sit and sup with you and chat about the these lovely gardens, sweet Myrcella, but that’s something my father would do to put off telling you the truth. I have no need for such things.”

“What is it?” she asked, her voice trembling in fear.

Arianne touched her cheek once more and sighed when Myrcella flinched. “I’m sending you away. This is no longer a safe place. Your uncle serves as the Hand of Queen at King's Landing; you will be happier with family.”

It was a staggering blow. _This_ was her home. She had lived in Dorne for half her life—the half much better remembered. Memories of King’s Landing were faint and unfamiliar. She blinked back tears though they colored her voice anyway. “What have I done?”

Arianne kissed her gently on the mouth. “Nothing, sweet Myrcella. Nothing. This place has remained a sanctuary through the great war. I brought the war here once and caused you great harm. I will not do that again.” Arianne took her hand. “Come, let’s eat dinner. My cousins will be by soon to see you off.”

“So soon?” Myrcella asked. “Will I go back to Sunspear first?”

“No.” And that was that.

Arianne resembled her father more than she would admit. She continued on the same breath with breezy pleasantries, and as Prince Doran had led with love, Myrcella loved Princess Arianne for it. They settled under the alcove of the gardens and watched the children playing in the soft fountains as Arianne described the trip and what would lie beyond it. “I know you love to ride, darling; I’m sending four sand steeds with you, and all the gowns and jewels you may need to have a comfortable life. And I do hope you have a long and happy life. Write to me through my cousins. I should like to know how you are. If you ever need help, ask, and I will do everything in my power to help you.”

Arianne supped with her until Myrcella was lightheaded from the wine they shared, and Arianne slept in her bed that night, a wonderful comfort. When she rode away the next morning, Myrcella thought sadly that it would be the last time she saw the princess.

* * *

King’s Landing was just as she remembered it, if not smaller. It certainly smelled just as badly as she remembered. Past the pungent brine of the bay water, the scent of filth and poverty was powerful. So very different than she was used to. Myrcella stood on the deck of the royal ship Arianne had commanded for her journey and watched it slowly dock.

Uncle Tyrion stood on the dock ringed by bare-chested guards and the standard of the Targaryen queen. Tyrion’s grizzled face was twisted into a smile. He was more familiar than this place. Myrcella ignored his well-hidden look of shock when he saw her scar and slid to her knees to hug him close. “Uncle,” she whispered, kissing his scarred cheek.

“My god, you’re so tall and pretty. When did that happen?” His arms were tight around her, and he sighed and seemed to relax into her embrace, as she his. Then, gently, he drew back. “Come. The Queen would like to meet you.”

“Would she?” She was curious about the Targaryen queen, but she wasn’t a fool. “Am I welcome?”

“For now.” Tyrion's smile was less ominous than his words.

Back before the war, the parapets were covered in banners of the Baratheon sigil, but the stag had since been replaced with dragons and fire. Myrcella wondered if the great dragons of Queen Daenerys were here; the possibility provoked a shiver of dread. Arianne would tell her it was a shiver well earned by all the ancestors that used that fear to avoid their own death. When Elia Sand lost her mischievous smile talking about dragons, one knew there was nothing to them but horror.

At least the people along the docks didn’t stare. They hardly seemed to notice her, which was a relief. Irrational fear, to think anyone would notice a Lannister now. Lannisters did not exist after the war. Myrcella kept her head down and let herself be swept up in the procession of gray men around her.

The way to the throne room was as Myrcella remembered it. How odd that in this great and terrible war, the inner keep hadn’t been touched. The throne room was, however, much changed. It was decorated in breezy silks overlaying ominous banners of dragons. At the end of the hall, the Queen was present to meet her. She was the only person in that great room, and she filled it to the brim with her presence.

“Queen Daenerys,” Tyrion started. “It’s my great honor and pleasure to introduce my niece, Myrcella.”

Myrcella curtseyed without looking up, as she prayed was appropriate. It had been a long time since she’d been schooled on etiquette, and the new queen was from foreign lands with strange customs. Dorne itself was considered foreign to the rest of Westeros.

“I’m certainly happy to meet someone Tyrion holds in such high esteem,” Daenerys said. Her voice was surreally sweet for a woman that commanded a truly bloodthirsty dragon. Myrcella raised her head and was further startled at the sheer smallness of the Queen. She was beautiful, young, and tiny, wearing a gauzy pink silk dress.

“My Queen, it’s an honor to be back in King's Landing, in your presence.”

Daenerys descended from her throne and stood on her tiptoes to kiss Myrcella’s scarred cheek. Her disconcerting violet eyes were as sharp as they were intelligent. Contrary to her sweetness, quietness, and smallness, her presence made Myrcella want to shrink into herself. The queen said, “Myrcella, I welcome you here as long as you plan to stay.”

“Well,” Tyrion said. “We’ve kept enough of your precious time, and I think my niece is tired from her journey. I will speak with you later, my queen.” He turned and swept Myrcella up in his wake, leading her away from the frightening intensity of that woman. They ascended the Tower of the Hand, and he motioned her to a large, well-kept bedroom. “For you. Rest, and we'll enjoy dinner later.”

He sent a servant to fetch her at the eighth toll. Tyrion was already seated when she entered his quarters. His smile was a grimace. “Forgive me. My joints are protesting today. Come, eat.”

She rounded the table to kiss her uncle on the cheek. Perhaps it was a blessing he had survived the war. They were the last two Lannisters alive from their immediate family. Even poor sweet Tommen had been murdered—not by the war, but by tragic grief. Sometimes she wondered why she had been the one to survive. The sword stroke could have just as easily taken her head, not just her ear.

A warm breeze blew from behind the wispy curtains on the balcony. It was cooler than she was used to though the air of King's Landing was so heavy with moisture it made the heat so much stronger. Her meal was bland, lacking the hot spices she’d grown to enjoy, but it was in some strange way a relief to be back. She had a new, cautious hope for the uncertain future here.

“I’m sending you North,” her uncle said after they’d begun their meal, stripping her hope in a heartbeat.

Myrcella wanted to cry, but she only set down her fork and asked, “Why?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Did Arianne send you here because Aegon, false Targaryen, wanted to fuck you or kill you?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“Did you wonder why you were being sent here?”

Myrcella couldn't suppress a twitch of irritation. She was not simple-minded or blind. “I wondered first why I had been cast away to the Water Gardens and forbidden from returning to Sunspear. But I didn’t think it wise to ask Princess Arianne if her husband lusted after me the final time I saw her.”

Tyrion sighed, his apology plain on his face—whether for slighting her intelligence or for her situation. “No matter. Lust is lust whether for cunt or blood. You ask me why: you will never again be welcome in Dorne. Casterly Rock is no longer ours. What remains of the Tyrells and Tulleys are no friends to the Lannisters.”

“Yet you would send me to the Starks, who hate us most.”

“Not all Starks,” Tyrion replied. “To Sansa Stark in particular. Sansa isn’t an innocent, but she protects women such as yourself, especially after her own past.” Tyrion’s face shifted in regret. “She will protect you from that fate.”

“And Arya Stark?” Myrcella rebutted. She’d heard about the wild wolf girl and her ruthless ways during the war. By the time tales arrived at Dorne, they were much embellished, but Arya’s thread of hatred for Lannisters and Freys and Boltons was a common theme.

“The oddest of the siblings, including her skinchanger brother. Not Jon, the younger one. Gods know what he is now. They say he lives beyond the Wall, tending to the magics there.”

“Uncle!”

He sipped his wine and smiled tightly. “Sansa is a friend. She will protect you, as she was not protected.”

“But her sister—”

“We thought you were dead for the longest time. Did you know that? Cersei died thinking it—thinking all her children were dead. I cannot imagine her rage when she discovered the child they sent north was not her daughter, and yet Doran Martell saved your life with that subterfuge whether his motivations were good or not. When I received a letter from Princess Arianne only weeks ago, I hardly dared believe it. Yet here you are—scarred but alive.”

It hurt, but she knew her uncle meant her no insult or pain. He loved her, and he’d known what it was to be marked by life since his birth, long before he was scarred battle.

“I was sent to Dorne for my protection. I was banished to the Water Gardens for my protection. I’ve been banished from Dorne for my protection. Now you’re sending me north for my protection. Where will they send me when I arrive there? To Bran Stark and his wildlings?”

“They’re called Free Folk now. Have care with what you call them. There are plenty that live in Winterfell now.”

“Uncle Tyrion…”

Tyrion’s smile was tight. “I do find your Dornish accent rather endearing.”

Myrcella wasn’t distracted. “Perhaps if the queen demands my safety—”

“Let me go on a little tangent, niece. The person King Jon and Lady Sansa love most in this world is their little sister, Arya. And for whatever reason, Queen Daenerys loves her almost as fiercely. She has a great respect for the good-hearted Starks and their loyalty to their own house. Sansa and King Jon may be the elders and may have the first say, but Arya has the final power.

“Rather delicious rumor floating around about them sharing each other. Why, even Sansa is involved! Had you heard it down in Dorne?”

“Uncle Tyrion,” Myrcella said firmly, trying to steer the conversation back.

He spread his hands. “But isn’t it rather poetic:  cousin to cousin to cousin love affair? Though I suppose Jon is technically Dany’s nephew. Rather more removed than most Targaryen marriages though.”

“Tyrion!” Myrcella said again, lost in his tangent.

He sighed, a whistling noise from his nose. “No, my darling, you are being sent north as a favor to me, into what could be the jaws of a hungry direwolf.” Tyrion winced as he sipped his wine. “What certainly are the jaws of a hungry direwolf. For Arya Stark—a warg, a facechanger if the rumors are true—is always hungry for the blood of her enemies. The Freys stand as an example of that.”

Warg and facechanger? These were terms that had never come south. “The Freys?”

“Dead. The lot of them. Arya Stark saw to it in a clever bit of warfare years ago. Not unjustifiably.”

“I’ve done nothing to her. I’ve done nothing to anyone,” Myrcella said, a little desolately.

“You are a Lannister; you are Cersei’s daughter; you are Joffrey’s sister; you are Jamie’s daughter.” She winced. Tyrion’s stare was sharp. “Does it hurt you to hear that? You’ll hear it often in this country. You’ll be called a demon of incest, an abomination, a freak. Don’t let what they say hurt you; you already know the worst of it.”

“You’re the best out of all of us,” she said, even as she felt no love for him because of the message he delivered.

Tyrion’s expression twisted. “You only say that, darling, because you don’t know me.”

“I do, uncle. Thank you for protecting me.”

“Write me,” he said quietly. “Tell me the truth about how you’re treated. Ask anything, and I will do what I can to meet your requests. Sansa Stark will protect you.” He waved a few fingers. “If you wish to entice Arya Stark into friendship, take her one of those sand steeds Arianne sent with you. There’s nothing more that she likes than riding, I hear.”

Myrcella wasn’t distracted. “I wish I could stay here, with you.”

“As do I, Myrcella. I wouldn’t send you North if I didn’t think you have a greater chance of finding happiness there than here. It will be hard, doubtless, but if you stay here, you won’t be happy. Dead girls cannot be happy.”

* * *

Myrcella met the King when she was escorted to the small group that would travel North with her. She was dismayed that Jon Snow—no, Targaryen would be traveling with her. He was not as big as she imagined but just as dark and intense. He was also kind in a solemn way. King Jon’s attempts at conversation the first few days she rebuffed with ignorance. She would not make the same mistake twice.

She had looked at Aegon once to be sent away from her home in Dorne. The sun had been shining through the rustling palms that day. He had caught her on her knees with her hands full of scrolls that had fallen from her ripped satchel. She’d looked up at him as he walked alongside Arianne, surprised by his pale hair and broad shoulders. His dark eyes had touched her for a moment before she ducked her head.

She would have forgotten about that look if she hadn’t realized it was the cause of her exile.

No, King Jon would never be a companion or friend. She didn’t know what or who ruled him or if he saw invitation in acquaintance, as Cersei had put it once. No, she would leave King Jon to himself. There was no place for her but this one, and he owned it all through Daenerys.

The ride north along Kingsroad took less time than she remembered from her childhood journey. She traveled with three guards, a female attendant, and Jon, anonymous on the road despite his presence, on horseback at a fair pace. It grew cooler each day until every morning dawned with a layer of frost on the grass, and she shivered until the sun was high enough in the sky to burn off the cold fog that descended.

Clothing of commoners changed, and she envied passing travelers their fur-lined cloaks. She’d had no thought of changing her clothes; the long winter had passed, but summer in the north was much different than summer in the south. The gowns Arianne had sent with her were lovely and rich but not made to provide warmth.

It was so startlingly green. Not the harsh yellows and whites of the deserts but sharp greens and blues of the trees, grass, and sky. Every day without fail they passed at least one beautiful field of wildflowers, splashed with reds, blues, and purples.

Then, three weeks into their journey, they crested a great hill to see the castle of the north. Jon pointed downward to a set of walled buildings in the distance and announced unnecessarily, “Winterfell.”

A moment later, a long howl echoed from the woods below them. Jon smiled and spurred his horse into a trot.

She wondered how far along the reconstruction had come. In many of his overtures, Jon had mentioned the going was slow but steady, and the Starks had been working at it since the war ended the year before.

She remembered the royal procession when she was a child, of being confined in the carriage with Cersei and Tommen. She’d been too meek to let her curiosity show, but now she was happy to be able to look about her as they rode into the gate and across the muddy courtyard. A great portion of the wall had been knocked down, but debris had been cleared, and there was the mark of masons gradually patching it back together. The buildings that were up looked new, and there were signs everywhere of stone masonry and glass forging. People moved hurriedly back and forth across the courtyard, but they seemed happy to be working.

They finally stopped outside what she remembered to be the Great Hall. There was only one woman in a fur-lined cloak in the inner courtyard awaiting the procession. Myrcella slipped out of her saddle, rubbed the dusky sloped nose of her mare and held her to be collected by the stablemaster of Winterfell as she gathered her thoughts.

She needn’t have. Jon and Sansa embraced each other tightly, leaving Myrcella to watch awkwardly. Sansa smiled at Jon before she turned to greet Myrcella. “Good day, Myrcella.”

“My Lady,” Myrcella said, curtseying stiffly for Sansa. She presented her unscarred side first out of habit and instinct. She wasn’t prepared for Sansa to take her hands.

Myrcella didn’t often think of people in how they differed from others, but Lady Sansa contrasted Princess Arianne in nearly every way. Sansa’s hair was Tully’s beautiful golden red, and her height was greater than Myrcella’s, uncommon in a woman. She was slender, cool, and her face was flat of affect, even when she smiled and squeezed Myrcella’s hands. “Your hands are cold. Come inside. We’ll have to get you proper northern clothing. You’ll have to forgive Arya. She rarely uses the excuse, but she’s riding to avoid responsibilities today. Fitting she missed Jon’s arrival.”

“She’ll be here soon enough,” Jon intoned. “I heard Nymeria in the wood.”

“Myrcella, forgive me,” Sansa said as she led them into the Great Hall, which was warmer than the cool morning air. “I should have said, ‘welcome’. I hope you come to find Winterfell home."

“Thank you for this sanctuary,” she responded dutifully, uncertain if she could trust Sansa but wanting to.

The Great Hall was stark, only decorated by a banner with the full sigil of the House Stark:  a direwolf, the entire body, not just the head she remembered studying as a child. There were two oak tables; one was shoved against a wall, and one stood at the head of the room in front of the banner.

“We hold hearings here,” Sansa explained. “As of yet, there’s no time or funds to decorate it.”

It put Myrcella in mind of the great throne room at King's Landing. She’d played in that room for years before her curiosity got the better of her and she sat down on the iron throne. It hadn’t made her any bigger nor had it clapped its great spined jaws closed around her and consumed her like she’d once dreamed. Joffrey saw her sitting there though, and she’d never played in the throne room again.

“Snow,” she said quietly. “Snow and flowers would be a fitting decoration.”

“Rather too pretty for my sister,” Sansa said mildly. Behind them, the oaken door opened, letting in a strip of light. “Ah, and there they are.”

Myrcella followed that shadow to its owner. She stared at the great gray wolf that stood at the entrance to the hall. It was the size of a small pony—head level with Myrcella’s chest unraised—with bright yellow eyes and a gray silky coat. A figure stepped beside the wolf with little fear and slipped fingers through the fur of its nape.

Myrcella’s first useless thought was that this was Bran Stark, though Bran Stark was a cripple. The figure had dark hair—long and half drawn-back from his face—but he had no beard. He wore plain clothing, but if this was a Stark, there was no surprise in that. Leather boots, woolen breeches, a quilted doublet with a leather tunic over top, a long black fur-lined cloak. One dagger, one sword, worn on both hips.

He wore a gray sigil stitched on black:  a noble direwolf head emerging from black shadow under a hood. It was Arya’s sigil.

Then Myrcella realized this was Arya Stark. And Arya Stark was beautiful.

This was not the dirty, long-faced, solemn little girl she remembered—and was intimidated by—on the trip south along the Kingsroad. This was a beautiful, stark, severely cut woman with a face like weathered ice: smooth yet sharp, and completely placid. Her eyes, framed under strong black brows, were light gray, discerning, and they seemed to look right though Myrcella. When Arya’s eyes finally moved from Myrcella’s face, she knew what it was like for a hooked fish to be stripped roughly off of its line and thrown back to its freedom over the dock.

Arya's entire demeanor changed when she looked at Jon. She grinned, an expression that opened her face and made her even more beautiful, and they approached each other quickly to throw arms around each other. Jon picked Arya up and spun her, grunting into her shoulder.

When Jon released Arya, Sansa pressed her hand to his shoulder, and they all turned to face Myrcella. In that moment, Tyrion’s illicit incestuous rumor didn’t seem so far-fetched. They all seemed more Targaryen in intensity than the quiet solemnity of Lord Eddard Stark.

Arya’s stark face shifted subtly as she looked at her sister. “Left a doe by the river with its fawn.”

“Good of you,” Sansa said with a vague hint of sarcasm.

Arya peeled off her gloves, met Sansa’s eyes briefly, and looked back at Myrcella. She seemed to take in the whole of Myrcella’s face without lingering on her scar. “It wasn’t her time. There will be more to hunt next season. Lady Myrcella.”

“I’m not a lady anymore, Lady Arya.”

“And I’ve never _been_ a lady,” Arya said. Her tone went shockingly dry. “Did you ever call me Horseface?”

For a moment Myrcella panicked as she tried to remember ever saying or hearing it said. Sansa had tittered over that name, hadn’t she? Her friend, the other girl, had been the one to say it though. She’d wanted to be Sansa’s friend, but she’d also wanted to be Arya’s friend. They were closer in age, and Arya was so much _different_ —too different to talk to. Arya had never pretended to like her.

“No. You frightened me too much.”

Arya raised her dark brows, her gaze tracking from Myrcella’s feet to her face. Myrcella felt exposed, even though her stubbed ear and scar were concealed by her hair. “I frightened you?”

“I knew you would knock me down if I made you angry.”

“You’re right to be afraid.” Arya’s expression changed subtly, but Myrcella saw the danger as clear as day. She shivered and lowered her eyes only to watch a dappled cat wind between Arya’s boots. It turned and looked at her, and it was like being stared at by the direwolf, by Arya Stark herself. She kept her eyes down until Arya and her animals strode past her and out of the great hall.

Jon offered consolation, little good it was. His smile softened his dark eyes. “She’ll warm up in time, that one.” He followed his youngest sister out of the hall, and Nymeria, who had waited at the door, walked behind him.

Myrcella thought it was more likely that she grew back an ear than Arya would like her.

Sansa gave a harsh sigh. “She’s being a brat, as usual,” she said, again with true warmth. “Arya is all bark and no bite, at least as long as you don’t murder innocent people or some such nonsense. Don’t pay her any mind. She likes her games. She’s like a child sometimes. You mustn’t take part; she’ll lose interest then. Come, I'll show you to your quarters.”

* * *

They didn’t go straight to Myrcella’s quarters. Instead, they stopped off at the Godswood. As much as Myrcella ached to be away from these intense Starks, she enjoyed the quiet of this place. It was clean in smell and sound, something that reminded her of the soft windy dunes of the Water Gardens.

It was here that she was comfortable asking, “Lady Sansa, what will be my duties here?”

“Duties?” Sansa opened a plain iron gate that led into the Godswood. Somehow this portion of Winterfell had escaped the sacking relatively intact.

“Am I to be your handmaiden?” Myrcella brushed her palm across one gray tree, enjoying the feel of its bark.

An amused laugh was her reply. “In name, I suppose. I mainly need help with dictation; I have the help I need to dress and such. Arya may steal you away for sword practice, or to ride or hunt or such.”

The day Myrcella crossed swords with Arya Stark would be the day she lost her other ear…or her life. “And what of mending your clothing?”

“Arya is horrible at it. As soon as I stitch one shirt, she’s torn two more. I will gladly give you that responsibility. I mend my own clothing,” Sansa said mildly, stopping to stand in front of the weirwood tree. Myrcella remembered this tree; the face had frightened her when she’d looked out of the guest house at it. She’d never ventured into the Godswood: too dark and too foreign. Now it reminded her of home only for its complete opposition to Dorne.

She watched the red weeping eyes and asked, “Where will I sleep?”

“You have your own quarters.” Sansa led a meandering path through trees. When they’d reached the edge of the wood, Myrcella was startled by the beautiful glass building that stood against the wall.

“But… What am I do?”

“Ah,” Sansa said quietly. “You are truly here as a ward. Tyrion is a friend, and I have taken you at his request. You were also quite apart from your mother’s horrible nature; I remember that. If you ever wish to make a match—a solid if not advantageous match—I can arrange that. If you wish to join the church, I can arrange that. This place can be a stepping stone or a stone you can build a house on...if you forgive the metaphor.”

“Thank you,” Myrcella said, both untrusting and relieved.

Sansa opened a doorway to the glass building. Myrcella was surprised by the heat and moisture within. It was a breath of fresh air after the dry cold of the North. This was the aforementioned greenhouse. “Arya repaired this as quickly as she could, but glass is hard to come by. It’s so nice to see it standing. I’ve sent for so many seeds and fruits and vegetables, but many just don’t grow.”

“If I had realized it, I would have brought Dornish grapes, not wine, with me.”

Sansa smiled, nodding to a few workers who paused in their tasks to bow. “At least the wine is guaranteed to be wine. We’re unlikely to see a single bloom from grape seeds, but your uncle would likely want to try. We get a small amount of exotic herbs and fruits, enough for the luxury of a taste.”

“Is there a library?”

“Yes. It was largely intact through the war, though the books were kindling.”

"There isn't a library without books."

Sansa studied her for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you're right. We're rebuilding our library one book at a time."

Sansa led them out into the dry cool air and pointed to the hotsprings steaming nearby. “It’s how we heat the castle; Arya has had to work with the smith and maester to replicate and repair the old piping system in the buildings destroyed through the war.”

“The hot water is pumped through the walls?” Myrcella was startled.

“Clever, isn't it?"

“Yes,” she said, surprised at the ingenuity. She’d have never imagined the ancient Starks to be that innovative. Industrious, yes, but not so inventive. She fell into silence, wondering what other secrets this place held. After a few moments, Sansa announced she would take her to her room in the Great Keep.

* * *

Her room was not as spacious as the wide, airy terraces that had served as her quarters at the Water Gardens, but it was comfortably sized, with a tall bed covered in thick blankets. She ran her fingers through the silky soft pelt on the coverlet, warmed by the patch of sunlight cast over the bed from a small window. As Sansa had suggested, the walls were warm against her fingers; perhaps she wouldn’t need to keep the fire lit. Myrcella was dumbfounded when she opened the door to the privy to find two rooms: the standard privy and beyond that a room with a stone-lined tub filled with water. She dipped her hand in it and shuddered to feel its warm.

The same water that warmed the walls served as ready baths. It was a delight and luxury beyond what she’d ever expected—even as a part of her pondered at how they kept it clean.

Sansa was not here to ask about that particular discovery. She’d told Myrcella to settle and rest for the afternoon after her journey. It seemed that at least Sansa would be passable company. She had so little affect or inflection and not the warmth and gentle love of Princess Arianne, who Myrcella suddenly missed so much. But if Myrcella were to make a life here, she would have to find some way to become a companion to Sansa. Arya seemed a lost cause already.

Back in her bedroom, she studied the braided rug that covered much of the stone floor. A tapestry stretched out across the wall above the bed. There was a lion and a stag upon it—not Joffrey’s design, thankfully—and she wasn’t sure whether it was an insult or a kind gesture. The colors of the room were rich reds and grays, a statement to where she was and who she was.

Abruptly, a black cat leapt up on her coverlet and meowed. Myrcella hesitated before she stepped close to slide a palm over its head and stroke down its back. The cat presented its backside to her—a female—and purred, rounding again for another pet. “Hi, kitty,” she murmured, thinking of the dappled cat that had wound around Arya Stark’s formidable boots. “Winterfell seems to like its cats.”

The cat meowed again. Myrcella imitated its purr and leaned close to take a breath of its soft fur: it was sweet and clean and smelled so. She suddenly missed Tommen.

“Do you like cats?”

She jolted upright and turned. Arya Stark stood in her doorway. She’d shed her cloak, and now Myrcella saw she wore a plain gorget around her neck. Arya’s left hand rested on the pommel of one of her blades idly. The cat slipped off the bed to wind around Arya’s legs. Myrcella found herself saying, “They certainly seem to like you.”

Arya didn’t smile, but her expression softened slightly. For the first time, Myrcella realized her lips were full. It was so strange to marry this beautiful woman to her masculine clothing. “Do you like the room?”

“It’s comfortable. The bath is beyond compare.”

“We share it. It wasn’t practical to create private ones with the reconstruction. You’re welcome to use that door to my quarters if you need me and don’t wish to suffer the hallway.”

“You…” Myrcella paused. “I didn’t realize you lived in this hall with us.”

“We all live here,” Arya replied. “Even if I manage to get the rest of this castle built before I die, the Great Keep is meant to house all residents, including the Starks.”

Arya turned to leave, which would present a respite from these intense Starks, but Myrcella felt the pull of charisma, the kind of feeling she’d developed for Arianne. She wanted to know this Stark against better judgment. She said, “It resembles what I remember from before the war.”

Arya paused on her way out and glanced at Myrcella sharply. “Do you remember it?”

“Yes. It was the most interesting thing that happened to me until the war.”

“Indeed,” Arya replied neutrally. Her eyes flicked over Myrcella’s scar, and Myrcella resisted the urge to shake her hair into her face. “We’ll be supping at the seventh hour; you’ll hear the bell. Food can be brought up to you if you’d rather eat in quiet.”

“What should I wear?”

For the first time, Myrcella heard Arya laugh. It was a pretty laugh, and it set her controlled face alive with emotion. “Whatever the damn hells you want.”

“Lady Arya—”

“Call me Arya or call me nothing,” she said sharply. “My mother was a lady, and my sister is one, but I have never been one.”

Myrcella felt like she’d been thrown around the room with Arya’s sharp changes in mood, and she scrambled to regroup. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I’m sure.”

Myrcella wasn’t sure what to say to that. She wanted Arya to like her. She wanted to please. “I only wondered, Arya, what are to be my duties, to you.”

“You have no duties,” Arya replied, her tone still sharp. “Entertain yourself. I don’t have the time or patience to invent tasks for you. Good day.”

Myrcella felt as though she’d been slapped. What desire she’d had to suffer a public dinner fled her, but Myrcella gave herself only a moment to wallow in her misery. She would go to the hall to eat with her wards. Rudeness was not a sword stroke across her face. This was the last place in the world left to her.

* * *

She learned that first night that the Starks had an odd practice at supper time to seat a man between them at the head table for conversation. The man that sat there that night was no lord, either.

Jon was quiet and somber during the conversation that night, and Sansa was polite and cordial. Arya, however, laughed and joked and seemed to know the names and the man’s friends and family without effort.

Myrcella marveled at the honest pleasure on Arya’s face as she conversed with their guest that night. She was a novel version of the sullen, dangerous woman who had greeted her. Myrcella saw beauty in her smile, and she fell asleep with that spark lit in her again:  hope even for the uncertainty of her future.

She slept well that night in her soft bed and warm coverlet, even with the company of a black cat curled up on her hearth. When Myrcella awoke in the morning, she knew exactly where she was.

* * *

The next morning, Myrcella dressed but kept to herself, taking breakfast in her room. There was respite in Myrcella’s quiet reclusiveness in late afternoon. Sansa called for her through a servant, and Mycella found herself standing within a study of sorts in a half-repaired Library Tower. The room housed two long tables. Sansa sat behind a neat table with discrete stacks of papers. The other table had haphazard stacks of scrolls—some half curled and others open with charcoal, ink, ruler, and compass scattered over the top.

“Arya has a natural dislike for the concept of organization,” Sansa stated, following Myrcella’s gaze.

Myrcella looked as much as she dared and was startled to realize the bulk of those papers were building designs. “She’s a builder? From what you’d said, I thought she helped…” Myrcella had assumed Arya oversaw the building and ordering of supplies. She didn’t think Arya had crafted the walls that were built around them.

“As good as we’ve found so far, oddly enough. I suppose there was a reason she always excelled with math. Myrcella, how is your penmanship?”

“I’m out of practice, but I’ve been told my script is good.”

“Would you pen a letter for me?”

“Of course, my lady.”

It was a letter to Lady Mormont. After they’d finished—the letter was a reply to Lady Mormont’s request for a few men to add to her small garrison—Sansa explained, “I like a more womanly script when I write to ladies, but I suppose this is wasted on the severe Lady Mormont. Thank you for your help, Myrcella.”

“Please let me know if I may help again.” Myrcella hesitated at the door frame. “May I ask why you seat a guest at the head table?”

Sansa’s smile was bittersweet. “Father used to do that. He usually seated a lord, but Arya has always been rooted in the commoners too. For Jon, the Night’s Watch took men from all areas of life and made them equal. Arya…” Sansa didn’t continue.

“And you?”

“I realized that even being a Lady doesn’t protect you from slavery.” Sansa’s smile dimmed. “It took some time for Jon to realize a woman’s advice is as good as a man’s. That was one area the Night’s Watch failed to school him. Now he has to listen to the Queen.” Sansa shook her head and schooled her expression into a bland smile. “Forgive me the reminiscence. It was a hard time for all of us, but we’re here now. No reason to wallow in it.”

“What happened to you during the war? My uncle said that you would protect me because of it.”

A flush rose up Sansa’s neck, and her jaw clenched. “I suppose it isn’t an unfair assessment. I was married to Tyrion, you know. I stupidly thought it was the worst thing to happen to me, but he was and remains a blessing in my life. I realized that when I was married to Ramsey Bolton. Your mother and brother taught me emotional pain; he taught me physical. They both demeaned me and made me less than human.”

“Lady Sansa—”

“Never fear, Myrcella. I fed Ramsey to his own dogs, and I watched them tear his jaw from his face. After all that crowing, he screamed like a sheep.” Sansa judged her expression. “Oh, yes, Myrcella. Jon and Arya may wear the swords, but I carry a sharp blade too. All said, I will protect you from my fate.” She turned back to her papers. “Good day, Myrcella.”

* * *

Another knock roused Myrcella just before supper hour. She'd been contemplating eating in her room instead of braving the loud, heavy dining hall. Myrcella had pondered her exchange with Sansa, turning over the uneasiness of it in her mind, and the knock made her jump and gasp, startling the cat that lay on her desk.

It was Arya at her door, wearing a northern high-necked dress that day. She held out a black pelt over her forearm. “For your cloak. Too cold here for that silky bit you wear over your dresses.”

Myrcella accepted the pelt more to feel it than to agree to use it. It was as soft as hare fur, and the black had splashes of white. “What is it?”

“Shadow cat. Put it away and come to dinner. You're to sit between us tonight.”

It was not a sword stroke, not even as sharply ordered as it was. Myrcella placed the pelt on her desk by the purring cat. She walked beside Arya down to the dining hall and accepted the seat at the center of the head table.

The food was bland of spices and rich of fat. She picked at it as Jon and Sansa asked her about her life in Sunspear, her relationship with Princess Arianne, her likes and dislikes, and her education.

“I enjoy writing. I like penmanship. I never excelled at math.”

“Tyrion said you enjoy riding,” Sansa stated.

“Yes, I do. Princess Arianne sent me north with several sand steeds.”

“Flighty beasts, aren’t they?” Arya asked with her mouth full. She sneered, a gesture that took Myrcella a frozen moment to realize was aimed at Sansa, not her.

“They’re called so unfairly. They respond to the slightest touch, and some heavier-gestured riders will send them skittering away out of lack of subtlety.”

“Subtlety, Arya. I don’t think you know the word.”

“You’d be surprised, dear sister,” Arya mocked.

“Do you know much of Prince Aegon?” Jon asked.

“No. Nothing.”

“Pity,” Sansa replied with a veiled look at her brother. “Though of course, dinner is for lighter topics. More wine, Jon?”

He turned a dark frown to his sister, taking her subtle warning. Arya leaned close enough for Myrcella to see a thin scar on her lip. “I’m tempted to throw food at her right now.”

“Arya! You’re not a child!”

“No, but it can be fun to pretend.”

Sansa ignored Arya after that. “Do you like your room, Myrcella?”

“I do.” It was not a lie.

Finally Jon smiled so openly it could be a grin. He shed years from his face, especially when he winked over Myrcella’s shoulder. “Maybe despite your neighbor.” He dodged the husk of bread that flew at his face.

“Arya!” Sansa gasped.

Myrcella turned in time to see Arya take a large bite out of the rest of the loaf in her hand. She lost her smile when she met Myrcella’s eyes and turned away to speak to the person to her other side. It was a snub, and it hurt despite Myrcella’s better sense.

* * *

Once upon a time, Elia Sand had told her she would be safer and live longer if she stopped trying to make everyone like her. Myrcella wondered why it was so difficult to let such a thing go. She had finally grown past the fear that strangers would hate her; the reality of it was grim enough. And yet...

As she’d lain in her own blood, wailing in fear and pain through the weeks of misery as her face healed, she’d cried as much about the pain as the thought that someone would want to hurt her. She’d done nothing to anyone, and a man who did not know her character had swung his sword at her face to take her head off.

Myrcella lay with her scarred cheek down, ignoring the lack of sensation of the scar and the muffled whisper of sound against the hole that was her ear. The fire crackled in the hearth, warm and soft, as soft as the purring cat asleep on her bed.

Even knowing what a man was willing to do to a child, thinking someone would not like her hurt. She knew she was a fool for it. There were many reasons to hate, but Myrcella couldn’t find it in herself to understand how to truly dislike someone. She had feared Joffrey, pitied the memory of her mother, and was angered by how Aegon had so easily uprooted her life. But she couldn’t summon dislike, much less hatred.

Arya Stark should be the last person she expected to like her and the last person she should expect to like, but Myrcella found she coveted that feeling. She wanted Arya Stark to laugh with her like she laughed with her dinner guests, to tease her like she teased her brother, and Myrcella couldn’t quite understand why.

Sansa was her warden. Sansa had been kind. Yet Myrcella wanted Arya to be her friend so hard it drove her to blink self-pitying tears into her pillow. She was a sentimental idiot, tucked back under her mother’s skirts, told to be quiet and keep to herself. _‘Don’t associate with that wild beast,’_ her mother had told her on the Kingsroad as they watched Arya run through the camp with the butcher’s boy and her wolf. _‘She may have the breeding, but she’s as common as a chambermaid. She’ll be sold to some poor lord’s youngest son, and the Starks will have to beg for that. Don’t dirty yourself.’_ It wasn’t a new lesson. Cersei had made many lessons to teach her to protect herself from the rabble, the commons. This time though, the commons wanted nothing to do with her.

* * *

Arya knocked on her door a few days later and announced, “We’re going riding.”

Myrcella hadn’t yet dressed for the day, but she changed her plans from her comfortable silk Dornish gown (suitable for reading books in her room) to a wool-lined dress that Sansa had given her. Sansa must have worked on the dress for days; it had a beautiful lion design stitched into the neckline. The gift was a measure of comfort even if delivered with such a veiled smile. In her idleness, Myrcella had fashioned together a fur-lined cloak in the same style as the northerners: one that buckled under her arm rather than at the neck.

She’d been ordered out on a ride, but the ordering didn’t quite sour the prospect of riding or having another chance to know Arya Stark. Myrcella redressed and considered herself in the dappled mirror. She looked like a true northern lady in her dress over a high-necked tunic covered by a fur-lined cloak. The cloak made her feel tall and broad, and she breathed against the warm, soft fur at her neck. She wondered where Arya had gotten the pelt as she arranged her hair to conceal her scar.

She told herself once again that she liked riding. Then she told herself a lie:  she vowed to enjoy this outing even if it was despite Arya.

Myrcella waited with the horses for a few minutes before Arya arrived. Arya wore leather trousers again, but her doublet was uncovered aside from her cloak. The doublet flapped open at one shoulder, an oddly enticing sight. Myrcella noticed for the first time how white the pelt lining her cloak was. Perhaps from a fox? It made Arya’s dark brown hair—caught up in several braids today—look almost velvety black. Again, Myrcella was surprised at how pretty the youngest Stark girl had become.

“Arya,” she said cautiously, tasting the name on her tongue at the same time she forced away the customary ‘Lady’ title. “When I learned you like to ride, I thought you might appreciate a sand steed. This is Lyserna, from the line of horses that the Martells ride.”

Arya glanced momentarily at Myrcella, then her eyes were on the black sand steed the stablehand held for her. Arya put her hand on the black coat of the mare and smoothed it along the glossy muscled shoulder, then up the neck and across its velvety soft muzzle. It was the finest horse Arianne had given her, and Myrcella hoped Arya realized it. Arya leaned against the mare’s face and closed her eyes, breathing a long sigh. She stayed like that for a long moment. Lyserna shifted, then settled her head over Arya’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Arya said quietly, meeting Myrcella’s eyes. “I’ll enjoy her.”

Their silence was full of Myrcella’s awkward need to make conversation. Arianne had always gotten to the point early, but she coaxed Myrcella to engage in light conversation about nothing for hours at a time. Myrcella was unused to this silence between peers. She tried to start conversation once, but Arya didn’t engage past agreeing that the sun was strong that day.

“Off riding, Arya?” asked a man on horseback riding towards them.

“What else would I be doing, Tomos?” she asked. For this man, Arya had more words. “How’s your son’s crop coming along?”

“Well enough. My lands won’t go to complete waste when I die.” At last, he nodded his head in a faint bow as they passed him. “Good day.”

“Good day,” Arya replied.

“Was that a lord?” Myrcella asked, uncertain about how the man had addressed a Lady of the North.

Arya laughed, and Lyserna seemed to lift her feet higher for the moment. “A farmer. He’s given his son a few acres to manage for the season. Last year I tracked a shadowcat to his property, and he hosted me a fine dinner in thanks.”

“He’s a commoner?”

“As are we all.” Arya’s voice held a hint of warning, and Myrcella realized suddenly how she sounded to a woman who cared nothing for rank or breeding. She’d prided herself in moving past her mother’s sharp delineation between ranks of peoples, and it hurt to be caught in such an obvious slight.

Eventually Myrcella said, “I’d never seen a shadowcat pelt before your gift.”

“They’re pretty enough dead,” Arya finally responded. Arya took Lyserna up to a canter as if she’d been riding the horse for weeks already. Sand steeds were particularly reactive creatures, and even the slightest shift in their rider could send them dancing out from under the saddle. Arya rode this horse better than any horsemaster in Dorne.

“You’re a very good rider, Arya,” Myrcella ventured as they rode through Winter Town.

Arya glanced back at her and smiled. “Want a race later? I’d like a feel of her speed, and nothing gets a horse up faster than another horse.”

Myrcella sensed this was something she should not refuse. “And perhaps a bear.”

Arya finally laughed for Myrcella, and it was a victory greater than any she’d had in recent memory. “Point to you.”

She stopped in front of a lively building that Myrcella slowly realized was a brothel. Arya nodded to the woman that stepped outside to greet them.

“Lady Stark. Always a pleasure, dear.”

Arya’s expression softened. “How is the new glass, Nem?”

“Certainly’s warmed the building up,” the woman replied. “Not so many drafts as there were. Our patrons are appreciative which means we’re mighty appreciative, Lady Stark.”

Arya seemed to tolerate her title then. She said, “Remember that when tax day comes around. You have a good day and keep warm.”

“Winter is coming,” the woman said with a saucy wink as she stepped back into the brothel.

They continued on uninterrupted through Winter Town and out along the grassy plains that surrounded Winterfell for miles. Myrcella let Arya draw ahead of her and considered that Sansa had not exaggerated. Arya was rooted in the common folk. She wondered if she should let Arya win their little race. Then she studied the proud line of Arya’s cheek and brow and thought she might consider concession as much of an insult as losing.

And, later flying on the back of her beautiful mare, neck and neck with Arya—laughing, fiercely joyful Arya—Myrcella forgot she’d ever considered letting her lady win. She shifted high on the saddle, showed her horse her hand, and they pushed ahead and won, Arya’s laugh reverberating behind them.

* * *

Myrcella fell into a routine in her life in Winterfell. She kept to herself, read through the morning, and dabbled in the greenhouse most afternoons, managing to coax a few sprouts. Occasionally Sansa would interrupt her routine to ask her to pen a letter. Myrcella had rare interactions with the other Starks: Arya and solemn Jon. After their race, Arya softened...and withdrew. Myrcella was afraid to pursue contact and draw ire again so she let Arya be and wished she was braver.

They were two rather lonely weeks on one hand, but Myrcella didn’t take for granted her freedom and the measure of safety she felt in this place. One day Sansa addressed this directly with her:

“How are you, Lady Myrcella?” Sansa stood at her full intimidating height just inside the greenhouse door, but she smiled gently.

“I’m well, Lady Sansa.”

“You may call me Sansa—and not because I’m not a lady.”

“Arya has particular tastes.”

“The politic words for it,” Sansa murmured. “She’s wild. I remember when Tormund first met her. He’s a Free Folk, a wild one, and he called _her_ a wild little sister. Said he’d like to marry her, but she laughed in his face. Yet to hear her talk sometimes, she’s as high-borne and learned as the rest of us.”

“She wears many faces.”

Sansa’s gaze was suddenly sharp.

“I mean no disrespect,” Myrcella hastened to add, wondering at the intensity of that stare.

Sansa relaxed. “Of course not. I heard you out-raced Arya on horseback. Quite a feat.”

“Oh, yes. I love riding.”

“Good, she has someone to bother when the mood strikes her. I’ve never been particularly good atop a horse. Myrcella, is there anything you need?”

“No,” she answered quietly. She was fed, clothed, moderately comfortable, and only a little lonely. It was better than the Water Gardens had been in that regard at least. “I’m content, Sansa.”

“Tell me if you aren’t. Or if you ever want to consider a marriage. I have many connections—”

“I’ve seen what want of a marriage will do to a woman. I’m content enough to live here until circumstances say otherwise.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “You’re welcome here as long as you’re happy. And now, I have a request.”

“A letter?”

“Yes, please. We can eat in the study if you would like. Have you had a chance to see our little library?”

“Not yet. I’ve been reading the books Princess Arianne sent me.”

“Well, go find it, and then tell me what books to buy to fill it out.”

Myrcella did as Sansa asked. A few days into her catalogue, she found an old family ledger. The names recorded therein tickled her curiosity. She wasn't surprised there was a crypt to be found that contained remains of the Starks, but it took some looking to find the entrance.

It was tucked away beside a crumbled wall, inconspicuous by its placement and the lack of lock or adornment. It was there that she came upon Jon.

“Lady Myrcella,” Jon said in his solemn way. “Are you interested in our crypts?”

“I am.”

He offered, “I can show you, if you like.”

Arya’s laugh echoed down from above. Myrcella ducked her head to catch sight of Arya’s boots dangling from the crumbled wall. “Make sure you keep an eye on him. Once scared Brann down there, all floured up like a ghost.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “And you punched me straight away.”

“Saw through your tricks.” Arya gave him a half-grin after she skidded down to the ground. Jon caught her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and set her on her feet. She jabbed him in the gut with her elbow, and he mussed her hair.

Such affection was surprising.

They proceeded down the steps into the cool humidity of the crypts. They walked slowly through the dank corridor, pausing in front of a bearded man’s statue. “Father,” Arya said quietly. Jon took a breath and nodded slowly.

“Who is this?” Myrcella asked about the feminine form nearby.

“Lyanna Stark. Father once said I looked like her.” Arya glanced back at Jon, and they shared a quick but obvious look. “Anyway, she's too pretty to look like me.”

Myrcella didn’t think before she said, “Arya, you're beautiful.”

“ _You_ think so? You're daft!” Arya’s laughter and emphasis were sharp stings of derision. Myrcella could forgive and ignore stares, pity, and the obvious aversion of eyes, but outright ridicule was another thing altogether.

“Arya,” Jon chided.

“Look at her, at that bloody golden hair and those bloody green eyes.” Arya pointed at Myrcella, digging the dagger deeper. “And she says _I’m_ pretty!”

The hurt was a deep twist in the back of her chest that raised heat up her throat. She couldn't protest, but she could escape the mockery of her scar. “Excuse me, King Jon. Good day.”

* * *

Was it vanity? Myrcella stood in front of the pock-marked mirror in her room and studied her features. Her blonde brows were strong and symmetric, her lashes long though tipped in blonde, and her eyes were as much green as blue. Her lips were full and curved and her teeth straight. Her blonde hair fell in loose ringlets, framing her face pleasingly in the light of the afternoon.

Myrcella pushed her hair aside to study the edge of her face, marred by thick scar tissue. The sword had sliced through most of her ear, leaving only the lower edge of the lobe intact. It had passed through her cheek, raising a jagged edge under her eye that extended halfway between her jaw and lip.

She smiled, and her scarred cheek was sluggish to match the unmarked side. Myrcella turned her head to stare at the lump that was the lower edge of her ear, scarred against the irregular edge that was the maester's work. Perhaps that edge had once been the curve of her ear.

Yes, this was vanity, but her vanity stirred only after a long stare, a child's widened eyes, or the quiet whisper of how beautiful she would be if only... If only she hadn't taken the sword across the face. Imagining how beautiful she'd be without the scar was the worst insult of all.

* * *

Sansa eventually put Myrcella to work transcribing mediation meetings, a task the Stark siblings shared. The first session she sat in was as Myrcella expected, only odd in that all three siblings attended the meeting together. The usual requests for help, gold, or men were given through the morning. Then two men walked up together, scowling and unhappy.

“My King, Ladies,” stated the first, his lip trembling in anger. “I’m here to ask that my neighbor repair my broken fences and lend me a good horse.”

The other man turned red and blustered, “Lend you a horse? Your mare was bred by my best stallion, and my gates are broke too!”

“Yes, and he broke damn near half my fence to get to my mare! And now she’ll be out for months, and I’ll have nothing to pull my plow.”

“Perhaps someone can explain the situation in full to me,” Sansa said with patience.

“It sounds like Hennis’s prized stallion here broke out of his paddock, broke into Lonner’s paddock, and mounted his mare. Am I right?” Arya asked.

Both men nodded.

“So we have two broken fences and a possibly pregnant mare.”

Once again, they nodded.

“So the only reasonable way to go about this is that you should repair your own fences.”

Lonner’s face shifted in shock.

“And, Lonner, if your mare isn’t pregnant, you have no need of another horse to pull your plow. If she is, you’ve doubled your beast of burden stock. If your fence was worth a shit, you wouldn’t have a possibly pregnant horse on your hands. Hennis, your stallion has plenty enough ability to breed many times in his life. And if your fence was worth a shit, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Make sense, men?”

They glanced at each other and nodded mulishly.

“Now go buy each other a mug of ale and laugh about the idiocy of horses.” Arya raised her eyebrows and nodded. “That’s an order.”

The men glanced at each other and relaxed faintly.

“What about his need for a horse if his mare is pregnant?” Sansa asked her sister quietly. Arya shrugged. “The ale should fix that. Hennis has a few horses himself, and if they mend fences, he may well lend one without fuss.”

Myrcella caught the pun and couldn’t stop her laugh. Arya turned, met her eye, and winked with a wicked grin. Myrcella was shocked by the teasing expression, and against her wounded pride, she felt herself soften.

Sansa addressed Myrcella first. “Don’t encourage her. How do you know these men again?”

“Drank with them down in Winter Town a year ago. Funny men.”

“Of course you drank with them,” Sansa said with a sigh.

“Shall we continue?” Jon had wiped the smile off his face, but it still twitched the corners of his mouth. It was back to business, though Myrcella imagined she and Jon would remember that exchange fondly.

* * *

“Hello, Lady Myrcella.”

Myrcella turned, shocked to see the dark Jon Snow standing beside her in the greenhouse. She’d assumed it was a worker coming into the door, not the King of the Seven Kingdoms. He crouched down and picked up a pot, carrying it to a sunnier bench. She let him think that was helpful.

“Can I help you, King Jon?”

“I’m just Jon,” he said solemnly. “Only Jon here. How are you?” he asked her.

She glanced behind him and was relieved to see a man enter the greenhouse to join them. “I’m well.”

“Do you like this place?” he asked.

“I’m safe here. That’s all I can ask.”

“Happiness too is worth asking for,” he said. “I will be returning south soon. You’re welcome to ask me for anything to make your life more comfortable.”

To Myrcella, knowledge always ranked higher than possessions. It was not hard to choose how to make use of his offer. “How did you all find each other again?”

Jon raised his brows slowly as if turning the question over in his mind. “Sansa and I reunited at Castle Black. We led a march south to Winterfell and retook the castle. And then Arya… I’ll never forget it. She rode into the castle on a fat gray palfrey with Nymeria beside her and a black cat sitting on her saddle.”

His voice trembled faintly with emotion. “I picked her up and hugged her, just like I had the last time I saw her.”

Myrcella thought of Joffrey, who cared about no one but himself, Tommen, who was too young to know he needed to care. Her mother had been harsh, even if she truly loved her children. Never had Myrcella witnessed this kind of bond, not even between the Sand Snakes, who saw each other as allies more than family. She spoke now in awe. “You all love each other so much.”

“We Starks stand together. I try to be here as much as I’m south. For them and for me.” He paused. "Don't let Arya fool you. She likes to tease, but pay her no mind. Sansa can keep her in line if she bothers you too much, but she'd never hurt you."

Discomfort filled her. Myrcella lowered her head to acknowledge his words but found no easy way to answer.

* * *

“Do you enjoy reading, then, Lady Myrcella?”

Myrcella stood from her crouched position sorting through a pile of books in the Library Tower. Maester Quall stood beside her, his expression apologetic. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Lady Myrcella.”

“You didn’t,” she denied. “I’ve found I’m quite ignorant on the happenings of the war so I’d like to inform that ignorance, Maester.”

He watched her shuffle her books for another moment. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I’m trying to learn more about the wildlings—” She paused, remembering some fur clad men and women who Sansa and Arya addressed as—“Free Folk, rather, and the Others. I’ve only found two volumes on their history…” She showed him the books she’s found. “Are there written accounts now of how the winter was pushed back during this war?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m penning one myself, but the Starks have little time to dictate for me. As to histories, I know of a few books. I’ll see if I can find them for you and send them to your rooms. You must forgive the mess in here, lady. I’ve had no time yet to organize the books. Many of the older ones were used for kindling, and Lady Stark’s shipments for replacements—those that can be, at least—are usually not well organized when they arrive.”

“If you would like help, I’m sure I could at least sort stacks.”

He smiled pleasantly. “You are always welcome, Lady Myrcella. But I also understand that you have other tasks to divert you."

"I would like to help you with your book. I'm not maester, but I write legibly."

"Much better than legibly, if Lady Sansa asks for you. You are welcome to my notes, Lady Myrcella."

* * *

Myrcella sat in front of the weirwood tree and studied the weeping red eyes. During her first visit to Winterfell, she had been too young to understand how shrouded in magic this place was and how shrouded in magic its occupants were. This place was eerie enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck, but the calmness of the ancient Godswood soothed her.

It was familiar in a way. She was no Stark, but she understood that some magics were deeper than others. The magic that wove through this tree's roots and wrapped up tight in Winterfell's walls was ancient and quiet, not like the flashy firemages that traveled through Dorne and earned coin by setting their swords alight, not like the actors that used mummery to confuse and trick.

This was real.

The world was bound to Winterfell, married to its fate. She could believe that a great war was waged and won here, that the last stand would always be here at Winterfell. She could believe that the Others were driven back out of the realm of men more than once by the Starks who ruled this place gently. She could believe, sitting here in front of this tree, that the Starks had united with Daenerys Targaryen to vanquish the great darkness to save the world of men.

* * *

King Jon left without much fanfare. He and Arya held each other tight for several minutes, then Sansa took her turn. Myrcella curtsied to Jon, and he returned a bow. Then he was mounted, and the few attendants that had come with them followed him. Nymeria trotted out of the gates after the group, and Arya watched them all go with a flatness on her face that could have easily meant desolation.

She was quieter than she had been, even as Sansa continued with her admittedly warmer self.

And life went on.

* * *

Myrcella found she enjoyed council sessions with the public when Arya was present. She seemed to know everyone—or at least know _of_ everyone, and she tended to make everyone happy enough with their silly disputes. At least, whenever she saw it fit to participate.

Arya’s interactions with Myrcella hadn’t become any more intimate, even when Myrcella was ready to forgive Arya’s insult. It was just so interesting to see how Arya became open during these sessions. It was as if being surrounded with other people relaxed her off her guard, and she forgot her hate for Lannisters. It was these interactions that made Myrcella relearn her aching want to be Arya’s friend.

Some days in these hearings when she sat with her sister, Arya seemed to stare off into space. Myrcella never had that advantage as she cataloged the requests and responses. On one such day a few weeks later, Arya seemed most likely asleep until she sat up and rushed from the room.

Sansa heaved sigh and got up too, which meant most of the occupants of the Great Hall followed her outside. Arya ran across the courtyard to the crumbled section of ramparts over the ruined Guest House. She shucked her armor and tabard and immediately began climbing through the rubble. Atop the wall, she leapt nimbly onto an adjacent roof and balanced on the crossbeam as she walked quickly to a neighboring Armory Tower. There, she disappeared from view.

Then Myrcella saw a child, hovering between handholds and flattened against a section of rampart without a way to get down easily. Sitting across from her was one of Arya’s cats, watching quietly.

Arya rounded the lip of roof, wrapped an arm around the young girl, who clung tightly to her chest. The cat turned and trotted away as Arya leapt onto the neighboring slanted roof and skidded down the side to land in a graceful leap onto the ground.

The girl let her go, but Arya held on and leaned over. “Do _not_ do that again.”

The girl nodded shakily.

“What would have happened if I hadn’t been there?”

“I would have fallen.”

“When you climb somewhere, know how to get down again. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Go find your mother, May.” Arya swatted the girl’s backside gently as she ran away. Her cat—the dappled one that had been on the roof—leapt down and rubbed against Arya’s shin. The creature followed them back into the council session and lay down on the table in front of Arya, her tail twitching as Arya’s fingers rubbed through her nape.

“That was extraordinary,” Myrcella told Sansa later.

Sansa rolled her eyes affectionately. “That’s Arya to a fault. Ridiculous. Though you seem to like ridiculous.”

Myrcella quietly admitted, “I wish she liked me.”

“I don’t understand that wish,” Sansa said. She sighed. “Arya isn’t as cold as you think. Take her riding again.”

Myrcella pondered at what was so compelling about Arya. Perhaps because she was so unapologetically female. She remembered her mother complaining, warning, so long ago about how a woman’s sex limited her station in life. She’d be judged by her breasts, lack of dangling genitalia, and she’d be raped or sold to be raped and never fight in a battle or lead a nation.

But Arya did everything Cersei had bemoaned no woman would ever be able to do. It wasn’t Arya passing as a man either. She simply did whatever the hells she wanted as herself, a woman.

* * *

Arya chose Lyserna to ride again, and the mare pranced and obeyed without a buck or rear. Myrcella’s Nym was ready to stretch her legs. She gave a practiced toss and snort or two but was altogether well behaved, especially with the great direwolf that followed them.

They rode to the great wood—just the two of them—and Arya pointed out the animals and plants that resided there. “All back from the Great Winter,” she stated. “Even the little squirrels. You would think they’d rightly freeze.”

“They belong here, in the North.”

“Right enough.” Nymeria—who had run off—was back, holding in her teeth a dead hare.

“You’ll be fat,” Arya said sharply. The words apparently were to her wolf, who stripped the rabbit of its fur with a firm tug and crunched down on its body.

“You’d think all the mutton she gets from me would be enough, but a direwolf never forgets the hunt. Sometimes I send her away to roam and be. It isn’t natural to keep a direwolf in a castle.” Arya turned her horse away from the sight and led them farther into the wood, where the trees were thicker and the light softer.

She glanced at Myrcella. “What was it like in Dorne? That’s one place I haven’t been.”

“It was dry and hot, clean and the buildings were all open, separated by cloth, not stone.”

“What did you do?”

“I read, saw to my own studies. Nymeria and Elia were...acquaintances. We would ride and entertain each other. Well, they entertained me. You would like Elia. She loves riding and jousting.”

“Jousting?” Arya’s smile was smug.

“You've done it?”

“Fulfilled one similarity to my aunt.”

“What do you mean?”

“By Bran’s recollection, Lyanna Stark rode as a masked knight and won a jousting duel.”

“Your brother Bran?”

Arya nodded. “Doubting Bran’s visions is foolish. Easiest to accept and move on.”

“Before I was sent away, I lived in the Water Gardens with the children. Doran Martell would bring children to the place to enjoy the water.”

“Is that all?”

Myrcella was startled by the veiled accusation. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. It was so they could know what greenery was like. I was with them for over a year, and no such thing ever happened. The Prince was hardly there.” She held onto the quiet truth that the Prince was close enough to death that Princess Arianne led her people now under the guise of her father.

She abruptly missed Arianne and her ease with words and intelligence, grace, and beauty.

“Why were you so secluded?”

“The Sand Snakes came sometimes, but… I saw Prince Aegon once. The next day, Arianne sent me away.”

Arya’s gaze was sharp. “He wanted you.”

“As my uncle said: either to fuck or kill, I suppose. I never thought it would be a wise question for Princess Arianne.”

Another long look from Arya. Her face was placid but intent, and her eyes moved slowly over Myrcella’s face. Finally, she said, “You loved her.”

“Yes. She was everything my mother wasn’t.”

“But she did that to you.”

For the first time since that morning, Myrcella realized her scar. She shook her hair down, but Arya caught her wrist. “Don’t hide it. It’s part of you.”

“It’s ugly.”

“Why is ‘ugly’ a source of shame? A thousand women would kill to have your face, Myrcella. And what do you think your shame reflects to other women who have been marked?”

“Do I bear a responsibility to embrace my deformity for all men and women who bear scars?” Myrcella snapped back in anger, yanking her hand from Arya’s grip.

“Ah, the lion has teeth,” Arya responded—but her tone was sharp too.

“Why do you always find fault with me?”

“You _are_ a Lannister.”

“I had no part in my conception or birth!”

“But it angers you for someone to point out the obvious.”

“You insult me on purpose, and I’m not supposed to take insult?!”

“You _are,_ Myrcella. I rather like anger on you.”

Anger made her face hot and tears blur her vision. Myrcella turned her horse away, trying to gather herself, but Nymeria came out from the woods on that side, and her horse startled, prancing sideways.

Arya rode past her, and Myrcella couldn’t shake the feeling she was being herded all the way back to Winterfell.

Later that afternoon, Sansa pointed out Myrcella’s dark mood. “What did Arya do to you to make you so quiet?”

Myrcella turned away. “I have no right to complain.”

“Surely you do, Myrcella. I’ll speak with her.”

“Please don’t! She hates me as it is!” To insult so sharply twice about her scar… Arya was too intelligent to be ignorant of the pain she caused.

“Do you think so? Arya likes to prick to draw response. She hasn’t gotten over that childish fancy. She’s probably just teasing you and doesn’t realize it hurts.”

“Lady Sansa, it’s alright.”

Sansa sighed deeply. “Very well.”

* * *

Sansa did speak with Arya, and Myrcella was mortified to overhear part of that exchange.

"She thinks you're insulting her. Myrcella is my ward. She's here to stay so stop making her miserable."

"If she were a cat, she'd be a spitter." That was Arya's voice.

“Perhaps next time engage her by making her _laugh_. She thinks you hate her. That’s what happens when you torment someone. How is it that you make your cats obey? Treat them gently, pet them when they want, and feed them scraps from your plate? I recommend taking that outlet with everyone in your life.”

“That would be a lot of petting."

Myrcella slipped away before she could overhear more of that mortifying exchange. A cat? Arya saw her as one of her beasts, and even if she didn't mean to hurt with her words, that comparison stung Myrcella's pride. She was a fool to care. Myrcella had to sit down and write to put this into perspective for herself. This place was safe. She could survive sharp words from one of her hosts in exchange for the comfort of her current situation.

Whatever Sansa said during that conversation, it made Arya treat her more kindly, but they didn’t interact much beyond trading requests to take each other’s fires from their hearth. Myrcella's most intimate interactions with Arya came from recording public hearings.

Arya was mainly absent from them, working more on her walls than her people, as Sansa put it. The only time she attended in a week span was to hear the concerns of a sheep farmer from a northern hamlet. He said, “We’ve lost three sheep in the last week to predators. Don't know if it’s bear or wolf. The sheep churn up the field so there’s no tracks, and I’d rather not go into that forest after something that could eat me.”

It as Arya who answered. “Nymeria will watch over your flock tonight. If something comes for the sheep, it’ll be dead by the morrow.”

The man seemed surprised and turned his eyes to the great direwolf that stretched out in front of the long table. “Thank you, Lady Stark.”

“Thank me when it’s dead,” Arya responded.

* * *

Myrcella knocked on the door in the chamber that connected to Arya’s room. There was no answer. She hesitated before pushing it open. “Arya?”

There was no reply, but a fire flickered in the hearth. Myrcella stepped inside, hopeful to snitch a bit of flame to light her own hearth, but she paused at the sight of Arya sitting still in one of the heavy chairs by the fire. “Arya?” she asked again.

Was this sleep? She reached out to touch Arya’s hand. It was warm and the skin soft beneath Myrcella’s fingers. Arya did not stir. She gave a heavier touch. Still no response.

“Arya.”

Myrcella shook Arya’s shoulder. Nothing.

Forgetting completely about her original purpose, Myrcella gathered up her robes and practically flew down the hallway. She knocked heavily on Sansa’s door for the first time since arriving in Winterfell. The door opened after a moment. Sansa seemed surprised to see her.

“What is it?”

“It’s Arya. She’s not… I think she may need a maester.”

Sansa pushed by Myrcella and strode back down the corridor to Arya’s room. She swept inside, paused at the sight of Arya, then approached. She found Arya’s pulse on her wrist and gently lifted a lid of one eye. Only the whites were visible.

Sansa stepped away and motioned for Myrcella to sit. It was an odd request, but she obeyed.

“How much have you heard about Arya?”

“Uncle Tyrion mentioned a few things. I know what she did to the Freys.”

Sansa studied her for a moment before turning away. “Arya will be fine. She’ll wake when she needs to, and a servant will be in to stoke the fire to keep her warm.”

Myrcella still worried through the night, but as Sansa had predicted, Arya was up eating breakfast on the morrow as if the night before had never happened, leaving Myrcella with more questions than answers, especially when Arya confirmed her direwolf had killed a small, mangy bear at that farm.

Ancient magic disguised itself in many ways.

* * *

In all the weeks that Myrcella had called Winterfell home, she never stumbled upon Arya in the bath. Myrcella was careful about her timing, but she relaxed that concern and realized she could draw one of two conclusions:  Arya Stark did not bathe or Arya Stark was more careful about stumbling upon Myrcella than Myrcella was of her.

That was what startled her so badly to step into the bathing chamber to see Arya soaking in the hot bath.

“Forgive me, Arya.” Myrcella poised at the door to the bathing chamber, uncertain if she should attempt a bow clad only in her linen robe. Arya lifted her head where it rested on the lip of the bath. “There’s room; join me.”

Myrcella considered for a moment and decided it wasn’t worth wondering if she’d insult Arya by declining. Everything else she did seemed to insult Arya, and when she didn’t insult Arya, Arya insulted her. She was abruptly weary of it all. “I didn’t choose my parents. I didn’t ask them to bring me into this world. But I do have a life, and I have as much right to live it as you.”

Arya’s eyes flickered across Myrcella’s body then met Myrcella’s gaze. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “It was hard to separate you from them. Your father threw my brother out a tower window; your brother ordered my father’s execution; your mother arranged for the murders of my brother and mother. Your grandfather gave the man who murdered my younger brother and raped my sister the power to do so.”

Myrcella turned her head away, blinking back tears. It was so unfair to want this woman to like her.

Arya continued. “But… It’s becoming easier to see you instead of them when I look at you.”

Myrcella had nothing to say to that, nothing that she hadn’t already said. Arya continued, “Did Joffrey torment you?”

“He tried sometimes, but Mother always stopped him. I saw what he did to Sansa… I know what he was. I know what my family did, but I was no part of it!”

Arya regarded her steadily. “You’ve paid some for their crimes.”

Myrcella flinched, turning her scarred side away from Arya. Arya clucked. “You lived, Myrcella. You’ve survived, and your life has marked you. Wear it like a badge. You’re not easy to kill.” Her smile was suddenly wide. “You told death, ‘Not today’.”

Did Arya see her physical deformity as a badge of survival? It cast her statements in a much different light. It was hard for Myrcella to see, not with the memory of her responses to those insults, but she would turn that thought over many more times.

There was nothing in particular to say to Arya’s statement now. She dropped her robe and drew a stool over. She washed her hair, then her body, rinsing over the drain with a bucket of bath water. Myrcella felt as though Arya was watching, but whenever she glanced over, Arya’s head was back and her eyes closed. The black cat that had followed Myrcella into the room regarded her with flashing yellow eyes.

“You bathe in the Dornish way,” Arya said quietly. “One foreign custom I approve of.”

“Then you do as well?”

“It’s the way of the consorts of Braavos.”

Myrcella tied up her hair, too startled by that comment to be anxious about exposing her ear as she turned to face Arya. “You knew consorts of Braavos?”

Arya’s grin took a mischievous twist. “I _was_ a consort of Braavos for a short time.”

What could she say to that? Myrcella had a thousand awkward questions, but she settled on, “I didn’t realize you were in Braavos. Was this during the war?”

“It was.”

“How did you come to be there?” She paused. “What happened to you after your father was arrested? I don’t think you were ever found.”

Arya, for once, turned her eyes away. She rubbed her fingers together, then dropped her hand. “I was in King's Landing for a time. Then the Kingsroad. Then Harenhaal. Then the Riverlands. Then Braavos.”

So many places. Myrcella had always assumed that Arya had found a quiet place to stay in secret during the war. “Was someone hiding you away?”

Her smile was tight. “I lived on the streets of Flea Bottom, caught pigeons, and ate what little I could trade.”

“I would never have survived.” Myrcella gained new appreciation for Arya’s tenacity. “Did you see… Did you see your father…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. The memory of Eddard Stark’s head separating from his body with a splash of blood and Sansa’s screams still haunted her.

“No. I was there, but I didn’t see. I’m not sure it wasn’t better for me to see though. I’ve imagined it more times than I should.”

“I’m sorry,” Myrcella whispered in a way she swore she never would. Why should she have to apologize for her family? But now she said it—not because she thought it was owed, but because she felt it. “I’m so sorry.”

Arya leaned across the bath and cupped Myrcella’s ruined cheek and smoothed a thumb across what was left of her ear. “I am too.”

It was a poignant touch. Their eyes met and held, and time seemed to slow for a long moment. Her own vulnerability made Myrcella jerk her eyes away. Her gaze caught on Arya’s necklace. She’d only caught a few brief glimpses of it and assumed it was a locket. She saw now the chain secured an iron coin, a very worn coin from the lack of features on the engraved face. She looked away when it grew difficult just to study the coin that had settled between Arya’s small breasts. “Why do you wear that?”

Arya’s fingers brushed the coin as she sat back in the bath. “To remind myself.”

“Of what?”

“The one true god,” she said. She stretched, then stood. There were crossing scars on her back. Myrcella gasped in shock. “You’ve been whipped!”

“Ah, a memento from a little trading vessel. I killed a deckhand who wanted my maidenhead, and I was whipped for the loss.” Arya’s words were calm, and she covered her body with her robes as nonchalantly as she’d bared it. “Will you sit with me tonight?”

Myrcella hastened to follow, too curious about this strange woman to continue her bath. “Is there anything you _haven’t_ done?”

“A great deal, I’ll wager,” Arya replied with a faint smile. She set a pot upon the table in front of the fireplace in her room, but Myrcella took over. She’d been making spiced wine just long enough to know how Arya liked it. When it was heated, Arya thanked her for her cup and took a long sip with a sigh. Myrcella jumped when she finally noticed Nymeria stretched out across the rug in front of the bed. The direwolf stood, upsetting the napping cat that had been on her, and stretched with a yawn. The black cat wound between Nymeria’s legs. The entire congress of animals relocated to the fur rug in front of Arya’s feet…which Arya unceremoniously placed on Nymeria’s shoulders after she’d lain down.

Then, one cat chose Arya’s lap, and the other chose Myrcella’s. The black cat in her lap sniffed at her wine before curling up in a purring ball.

“She’s very good with the cats.”

Arya smiled. “She knows they’re mine.”

This woman was an enigma, and she knew it. Myrcella refused to rise to the bait of that ambiguous statement. “I’d heard of direwolves…but it still surprises me how big Nymeria is.”

Arya chuckled. “You haven’t seen a dragon yet, have you?”

Myrcella looked up in alarm. “What do you mean, ‘yet’? I don’t plan on ever seeing one.”

“Would it were,” Arya replied. “Most people dream of riding one. You’re the smart side of that wish.”

“What happened to you after your father was murdered?”

“Murdered,” Arya repeated softly. Her gaze was far away, but when she focused on Myrcella again, she smiled softly. “Fix me another cup and I can suffer a tale. It will take more than a night to tell.”

* * *

Myrcella considered a stitched leather tunic for Arya. Her favorite was so worn it wasn’t repairable. Arya would probably like a plain leather jerkin, but her character demanded something far more fine. A wolf, a cat even. So Myrcella devoted her time to stitching and punching. Her fingers ached and eventually bled from the large needle. She missed the ease of silk.

This took her time, enough that she fell behind on mending Arya’s linen undertunics. She was startled one day to find one that had been repaired already—and was sewn in a jagged, crooked seam.

“What?”

Myrcella jumped and set the tunic in her lap. Arya strode down the Great Hall and regarded her over an apple that she took a hard bite out of. Myrcella ate those apples herself and knew how bitter they were, but Arya showed no signs she disliked the taste. She spoke with her mouth half-full. “A seam’s a seam no matter if it’s straight. Still keeps the cold out and the tits in.”

Myrcella caught her laugh halfway out and then felt a twinge of irritation at Arya for saying something so vulgar and herself for responding to it. Arya winked at her. “There’s a rare smile. Mend it if you will, but might be better to wait for it to tear apart again.”

“Did _you_ mend this?” Myrcella forgot about being uncomfortable with the wink.

“I’m better with this Needle—” Arya touched her sword and took another large bite of apple. “—than the little one, but I can still use both.”

“Please leave the clothing to me, Arya.” It was going to take longer to release the seam and repair the tear than it would have to do it herself in the first place.

She gave a half-shrug and tossed a small green apple to Myrcella as she turned away. “I’ll fix it if I have the mind to, but I won’t fight you for the chore. Good day, Myrcella.”

* * *

Nearly four months into her life at Winterfell, Myrcella was learning her routine and the routine of the Stark sisters. She was never surprised to receive summons by Sansa in the late morning. Myrcella scrubbed the earth from her fingers as she walked through the Godswood to enter the tower that housed the study, trying to clean her hands enough to leave the scroll unstained. Arya was in the study too that morning—wearing a northern dress that day—studying two scrolls and scratching out notes on another leaf of paper. They’d hardly begun their work when a harried looking messenger stepped into the room and offered Arya a scroll.

Arya’s entire demeanor changed as she unrolled the scroll. She went flat and her face hardened. She looked up to Sansa sharply, walked across the room, and handed the scroll to her sister.

Sansa took a long breath after she read it. “Arya.”

“I’ll send men to arrest him.”

“How can you prove rape in a whorehouse?”

“Rape is rape. You of all people—”

“I’m on your side, Arya. But we have to think of how this will impact future—”

“Rape is not tolerated!” Arya struck the table with her hand. “We’ll ride to Winter Town, take accounts, and bring that man back—”

“He’s a knight.”

“He’s a raper!” Arya snarled. “I’m going to Winter Town.”

Sansa hastened to follow, motioning for Myrcella to accompany her. “Wait, Arya! At least let us get cloaks.”

* * *

The whorehouse of Winter Town was a surprisingly pretty establishment. The matron bowed to Arya and Sansa and led them upstairs to a small personal room of one of the prostitutes.

“My lady!” the woman said, turning away.

Arya turned the woman’s face back. One eye was bled through and framed by a purple bruise.

“Hild, let me see,” Arya said.

The woman opened her dress and turned her face away. Bruises spotted her body—her breasts showed several purpling bites—and there were fingerprints on her thighs.

Arya nodded, and the woman pulled her dress closed.

“Thank you. Tell me what happened.”

She looked at Sansa and Myrcella and glanced away. Arya turned and nodded for Sansa to leave, and Sansa swept Myrcella up in her path. This woman trusted Arya above Sansa Stark. How had she gained such trust?

When Arya came back downstairs, her face was sharply outlined by her anger. “His name is Hunt.”

It was clear to Myrcella that Arya was going to kill the man. Seeing her now made her realize that this Stark woman never had planned to hurt her. Her little stares and teases were only that:  a farce. This was wrath.

* * *

Hunt was a knight under the banner of the Mormont. He strode into the Great Hall accompanied by several Stark men, apparently only to laugh in the face of the Stark sisters.

“This is outrageous.”

Arya leaned back in her chair and asked, “Do you admit you raped her?”

“She’s a whore!”

“I, Arya of House Stark find you guilty of rape. Your sentence—”

“I demand trial by combat! This is ridiculous!”

“Accepted. You will find your sentence with me.” Arya’s immediate response suggested this was the result she’d wanted from the start. She was standing on the floor with her dagger drawn before she finished her statement. She looked so strange in her northern dress with a dagger in one hand.

“Arya—” Sansa seemed to cut herself off as she sat back in her seat.

“This is a joke? If I kill you—a woman, a Stark, I will die.”

“On my honor, you will earn your freedom if you defeat me in battle. If you don’t believe me, please, stand still and let me slit your throat.”

He looked at Arya, who was so small next to him. Then he shook his head. “Fucking cunt…”

He drew his sword. Arya flipped the dagger in her hand and stepped forward.

“Right here?” he asked.

“Come on then. Or are you afraid of a girl in a dress?”

He was large and he carried a large sword. But when he swung that large sword, Arya made him seem slow. She ducked and shifted just enough to avoid his sword, and his swings became increasingly erratic as he tired and became frustrated. Myrcella watched with her breath held, terrified that each blow might hit. Then Arya stepped into a swing, trapped Hunt's sword arm under her own, and put her dagger into his crotch. He screamed a high wail, one that continued. Myrcella put a hand over her mouth as she saw Arya’s arm thrust repeatedly. Each sharp stab provoked another keening shriek.

What Arya stepped away, Hunt dropped his sword, cupped his crotch, and collapsed on one knee, shaking and white in the face. His blood dripped steadily onto the floor of the Great Hall.

“Did that hurt?” Arya asked, prowling around his form like a stalking wolf. Her voice quiet and as hard as flint. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay you later.”

She cut his throat.

Nymeria nosed the man’s body as Arya turned away. He gagged and shook as his blood pumped in audible gushes. Arya snapped Nymeria's name harshly, and Nymeria left the dying man to follow Arya out of the hall.

Later Myrcella and Sansa watched a few men scrub blood stains from the floor. Sansa sighed heavily. “At least Lady Mormont will approve. She might have one of her personal guard do the same if he were in her lands. That girl looks up to Arya, as much as I wish she wouldn’t. Had this been a man from Dustin, we might be in a stickier situation.”

Her tight smile dropped into a frown. “No, Lady Mormont won’t mourn the man. Hopefully Arya won’t either.”

* * *

Myrcella hesitantly knocked on Arya’s door. She wasn’t sure what she’d find, but it wasn’t Arya saying in a very normal voice, “Come in.”

Arya sat by the fire in her dressing gown, and she drank from a mug. She motioned for Myrcella to sit across from her in front of the fire.

“Are you well?”

“Well enough,” Arya said contemplatively.

Myrcella had been sickened by what she saw in the Great Hall; it sat like dread deep in her gut. And yet in this moment, seeing Arya looking into the fire, she realized that Arya’s rage and violence sprang from righteous vengeance. Arya bled for the wounds inflicted on others, and Arya made others bleed in turn. She’d been as gentle with the victim as she was ruthless with the perpetrator.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Arya met her eyes in surprise.

“You can’t fix everyone else’s wounds. You didn’t make that man rape her.”

“I don’t fix wounds. I make them.” She rubbed her fingertips together, and Myrcella realized her hand still had smears of blood on it.

“Arya—”

“The Tickler. I killed him. I told you that, right? But not how. I held a knife in my hand and I stabbed him over and over again until I was covered in his blood. ‘Is there gold hidden in the village? Is there silver? Gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric? Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many knights? How may bowmen? How many, how many, how many…’”

Arya took another swallow of ale.

“The Hound pulled me off. And then I put Needle in the heart of a squire I stabbed in the guts. Did I tell you about him?”

“You did.”

Arya seemed surprised. “I thought I was telling it to make me the hero.”

“Is that bad to kill someone trying to kill you?”

“Guess not.” Arya shrugged and took another long swallow. “They put Greywind’s head on Robb’s body. Stitched it loosely, stabbed through with a pike, on the back of a terrified horse. I was so close to finding them again, so close to death.”

“Arya.”

“I dreamed of the Tickler that night after I told you about the Mountain and his men. Woke up in a sweat, wanting to piss myself. Fear cuts deeper than swords.”

“You aren’t there anymore.”

“No, but someone else is. Somewhere a tickler is tickling some lowly man or woman or child for words they don’t have.”

“You can’t fix the world.”

Arya took a long breath. “My bloodlust is selfish. Sometimes I think the Faceless Men have it right:  Death is a gift for those who pay the right price. Everyone else is greedy. I fed Walder Frey his sons in a pie, and then I smiled in his face as I slit his throat and watched him bleed out. I poisoned all of his bannermen, all of his relatives, and I only spared the serving girls so they could spread the tale. Did I tell you that?”

The rat chef… It was horrifying, but it was a fitting punishment for the Red Wedding. Myrcella realized this was not an argument she could win. “Arya. You’re drunk.”

“Most likely.” She smiled a young, crooked grin and set her mug down. “I’ll be alright. Just a drinking night, and I’m a miserable drunk sometimes. I feel it’s right when I do it, and then after I’m so empty. I didn’t care before I came home, and now I do. I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

“Here.” Myrcella helped Arya up, steadying her, and led her to the bed. Nymeria stepped her massive form beside the bed and lay down next to Arya. Arya turned her face to the direwolf. Her breath stirred the direwolf’s fur.

“Good night, Arya.”

“Valar morghulis.” Arya caught Myrcella’s hand and smoothed her thumb over Myrcella’s fingertips. “Wear gloves when you work leather. Take the poultice on the hearth. Spread it on your fingers tonight.” One last caress. “Goodnight, Myrcella.”

She pondered at that tone and that touch—a touch given by bloodstained fingers—as she faded into sleep that night.

* * *

_Fear cuts deeper than swords. We tell death, “Not today.”_ Myrcella dreamed of Arya, hair cut short, still a little girl when she learned to kill, learned from a torturer what suffering, death, and rape looked like.

Myrcella had always told herself she'd been lucky, fortunate, even as she mourned for the scar that marked her so deeply. Arya—all the Starks—carried scars deeper than Myrcella, scars that marked their souls if not their bodies, and they healed from their wounds stronger. They'd won the war, hadn't they?

They’d told death:  Not today.

Maybe Arya was right. Maybe Myrcella had done the same. It was time to stop being ashamed of the marks life had left on her body. She’d survived the scar stronger for bearing it.

* * *

“You seem to be settled in here well.”

Myrcella looked up from where her hands were buried in the warm, wet earth to greet Sansa. “I think Arya’s beginning to tolerate me.”

“She more than tolerates you,” Sansa said with more confidence than was deserved. “As wild as she is, she’s too good not to like you.”

Good and wild, even with her fierce wrath. Though Arya was often absent during the day, she was open to company most evenings and still shared bits and pieces of her time during the war. Myrcella marveled again at Arya’s journey across the lowlands… Arya had only yet gotten to her passage across the sea to Braavos. She’d described Lord Bolton’s quiet, frightening ways. It was certainly a good thing Bolton and his bastard were dead, their bones burnt to ash and no more. Surely Sansa knew all these steps Arya had taken during the war, but Myrcella was unwilling to ask. She’d rather cling to the idea that this was a part of Arya only she was privy to.

One of Arya’s cats sat beside her. Myrcella reached out to scratch it and lifted her hand from the cat. It batted at her hand clawlessly, drawing her back to pet its head. “What is it about Arya and her cats?”

Sansa only shrugged. “They’ve been here since she arrived.”

Myrcella stared at the cat, who stared back at her. “Jon said one came with her riding on her saddle.”

“Yes. I won’t forget it either. It was that one, actually. Did he tell you she was carrying Walder Frey’s head in her saddlebag?” Sansa smiled again, a muted smile. She stood up and said, “Come by later to share a cup of wine, Myrcella."

* * *

Myrcella was surprised to see only Arya in the great study where the sisters worked. She’d been absent of late, more out in the forest than in Winterfell’s walls. She’d rarely been in her room at night. Myrcella set Sansa’s meal on her neat desk and brought Arya her meal. Arya set down her pen and compass and nodded her thanks.

“I forgot I was hungry.”

Likely why she was whip-thin and corded muscle. Myrcella turned to leave, but Arya motioned her back. “Eat with me.”

“How are you?”

“Better,” Arya said softly. She looked out the window and then back again. “I was back in that place again for a little while, afraid I’d stay there.”

“But you’re here now.”

Arya met her eyes with a long look. “So I am.”

It was a heavy moment, and Myrcella pushed past it. “What are you working on, Arya?”

“The ramparts. Most of it will be up to good masonry, but there’s a still some math to be had there.”

“I read a little book about the original building of Winterfell. There seems to be some thought there was magic woven into the walls.”

“Sure enough. I laid the first brick myself and give a little prayer.” Arya smiled, but that smile fell away. “Bran the Builder may have been magically inclined, but I am not. I know a bit of mummery but it isn’t the same. They say a Stark always must be in Winterfell, but the ‘why’ of that has been lost to the ages. Surely there was some magic woven in, but…”

Arya gestured to her desk. “I’m left with the grounded reality.”

It seemed highly doubtful that Arya Stark had no magic in her, not with her cats and her wolf. “Didn’t the Red Woman live here during the war?”

“I killed her too, you know. She did have something otherworldly about her though. Told me once she saw all the eyes of the men and women I’ve killed in my own. Though naming brown, blue, and green covers all the bases.”

“Purple is a color.”

“Ah, a Targaryen. That would have been a little less subtle than those types prefer, and Daenerys is one of the last people I’d kill in this world.”

“Do you love her?”

Arya seemed surprised. “I suppose I do. She’s a good woman—as good as she can be for what she has to do every day. A part of me hates her for taking Jon away, but he would go even without her. Jon takes his duty to the realm seriously.”

“I’m… My mother always talked about how women are limited by their sex. That men take what they want and ignore the rest of the time, which means a woman can’t do what she needs or wants. She’ll never carry a sword, never fight in a battle, never rule a kingdom. Only have babies and pray she won’t see them die.”

“Your mother was wrong.”

“You stand as a firm example of that.”

“And you don’t?” Arya asked.

“I was shipped to Dorne, promised to Trystane.”

“Yes, and you decided to take the Iron Throne yourself, as was your right by being the eldest.”

“Arianne’s idea.”

“But didn’t you believe it?”

“Yes,” Myrcella said quietly. “I lost an ear for it.” She remembered her scar for the first time that day and shook her head forward to cover it out of habit. Arya touched her shoulder and then pushed her hair back with a touch that lingered in her hair.

“And you were protected by Arianne and sent here to live a very independent life with two independent Stark sisters. Do you write to Arianne?”

“She implied I should not.”

“Write to her,” Arya responded. “The day Aegon sends himself or another up here to whisk you away—for fucking or death—I’ll cut his prick off and choke him with it. Assuming it’s big enough, that is.”

Myrcella burst into laughter. “That’s vile!”

“I’m vile,” Arya responded. “Tell me, what does your room need to make it feel like home?”

Myrcella was startled by the change in conversation. She thought of Tommen’s cats, thought of her dresses in her Water Garden room, of the sunlight and heat and spices of Dorne. “A bookshelf and writing desk. Perhaps Dornish spices on some occasions. A cyvasse set.”

“Done,” Arya responded. “Though you’ll have to teach me cyvasse.”

That very day, men carted in two heavy bookshelves and a writing desk with a surprisingly comfortable chair. Then came two trunks of books and a pen, ink well, bundle of paper, and two bottles of ink. A beautiful wooden cyvasse table was placed by the fire. Myrcella brushed her fingertips over the dragon and smiled. Unlike the sets found in Dorne, these were all natural wood. The white dragon was a fine pale wood, and the black a dark cherry. Beautiful.

She and Arianne had played once upon a time. Arianne relied upon her dragon, and her dragon died for it. Myrcella won more often than not. She liked the patterns of movement. That night, she trounced Arya soundly, who quipped the entire time there should be a wolf piece.

“Trade one of the horses for a wolf.”

“They don’t do enough. Though a wolf isn’t a dragon.”

By the third game, Arya was catching on. She managed a clever trap that killed Myrcella’s dragon, but Myrcella countered with a checkmate. Arya’s king was done the third time that night. At that, Arya said goodnight.

“If the king was just a girl, it would survive such a trap,” she said snootily.

“Goodnight, Arya.”

Arya’s smile warmed Myrcella. The game put her in mind of Sunspear and Arianne. She began her letter to Arianne by the fire that night, feeling despite herself safe. Apparently she’d been brought under Arya’s protection after all.

_My uncle received me in King’s Landing, and he sent me north to Winterfell. I have been here once before, back before the great war, and it is just as beautiful as it was before. The Starks rule this place, and they do well for their people and for me._

_You would like Lady Arya. She would make a great just Queen, but she’s happy enough to share the lordly burden with her sister here anorth. She loves her people—drinks with them and knows their names, their business, and their children. She protects them and serves vengeance for them. Sansa has a subtler hand, but Winterfell would collapse without her. She sees to the details that keeps this place together._

_The Stark siblings love each other. It’s an inseparable bond I have never witnessed before. Perhaps it comes from them being scattered during the war, but they are as firmly rooted here as in each other._

_I’m happy, but I would love news from Dorne._

* * *

Myrcella lay awake that night, studying the new additions to her room. A cat lay on her coverlet purring, and she stroked her fingers against its nape every few minutes. She was warm and comfortable, enjoying the cool of the air that contrasted with the heat from her blankets.

She’d mistaken familiarity for home, she realized. She’d called Dorne home, still missed it fiercely in some ways, but even as she’d lived there, she had never set her roots into the sand. Perhaps the sand slipped away from her, too soft to invite deep roots. She needed rich, safe, dark earth to dig herself in to find happiness.

Myrcella rubbed the cat again, thinking that a great oak torn from the earth would die while a short-rooted bush would survive a replanting. But why not? This really was the last place in the world for her.

* * *

“What shall we talk about tonight?” Arya asked a few nights later, her bare feet propped on Nymeria. They’d met in the bath again, and Arya invited Myrcella to share a drink.

“Dragons?” Myrcella ventured, looking into her wine cup. She wanted to how Arya, Blind Beth, regained her sight—why it was taken in the first place, why Arya drank the poison each day knowing what it did to her—but dragons had been weighing on her mind.

“I do love Targaryen tales. Visenya on Vhagar, Rhaenys on Meraxes, and Aegon on Balerion. Visenya was the best of the three, with her ‘Dark Sister’ sword. She razed Harrenhal.”

“The current dragons, I mean. Queen Daenerys’s dragons.”

“Her dragons? She birthed them with fire, but they aren’t hers.” Arya gave a burst of laughter. “No dragon is any man’s. Any man who thinks they own a dragon will die soon enough. I’ve ridden Viserion, and I still don’t trust him not to eat me.”

“You…rode Viserion?” This was the first Myrcella had ever heard of it, and the thought make her breath catch in a queer quirk of emotion.

Arya smiled gently—it had taken time to interpret her smiles correctly, but Myrcella now knew this one. Her face seemed much longer and harsher with her hair pulled back wet. Myrcella saw Jon in Arya right then, and yet that smile softened all those features into gentleness. “Every dragon has three heads. Dany rides Drogon, Jon rides Rhaegal, and I ride Viserion. It’s my hope that we’ll never be required to take them into the skies again; what few Others still live should be well retreated beyond North.”

Myrcella rolled wine around her mouth for a moment, considering that staggering revelation. Somehow Master Quall had forgotten to record that small detail. “There seems to be a great deal I missed about the war.”

“You were quite removed down in Dorne.”

“I suppose I would have assumed Prince Aegon would have more chance of it.”

“True,” Arya replied. “Since you have more Targaryen blood than I do.”

“Me?” Myrcella was bitter. “Baratheons married Targaryen, but I’ve been called a Lannister only for years.”

“It wasn’t an insult,” Arya said, setting down her cup. “There’s something needed to ride a dragon, but it isn’t just Targaryen blood for I have none of that.”

Myrcella put her head in her hand and watched the fire for a long moment. Arya was magic, that much was clear. Whatever magic she had was powerful enough to mimic the Targaryen's ability to soothe dragons. “My uncle said…”

“This should be interesting.” Arya’s tone was light, and it was clear she was teasing, probably in apology for her last statement. Mycella accepted the apology more for the fact it was given than anything else.

“He said you’re a warg.”

Arya regarded her over the rim of her wine goblet. “Do you know what that means, sweet Myrcella?”

She was startled for a moment. “You take on the skins of animals.”

Arya shook her head. “I do, but a warg only takes on the skin of a wolf. I am a skinchanger.”

Skinchanger? The implication… That day Arya had known about the girl on the wall. The strange spell of her sleeping by the fire. And a cat riding on her saddle coming into Winterfell. Myrcella wished she had seen that though she could picture it well enough. She'd guessed, but a guess that wild needed confirmation to seem real.

“Your cats. And…your horses?”

Arya’s smile softened, and Myrcella knew absolutely that it was a confirmation. Arya asked, “Why did you mention it?”

“Can you take on a dragon’s skin?”

Arya’s smile fell away for a moment. When it came back, it was slow and shadowed. She sipped her wine. “I wonder,” she said. “I wonder.”

Myrcella shivered.

“Dreams,” Arya finally said softly. “Since Nymeria was a pup, I’ve dreamt in her eyes. When I was across the narrow sea in Braavos, I still dreamed wolf dreams. I was rendered blind in the Temple of Death, and I brought a cat into the temple and used his eyes in the eves to defend myself. Cats are hard, respond better to suggestion than force. Treat them well, stroke them when they ask, and feed them some of your own meal, and they’ll resist less. Horses are the easiest. They’re easy to suggest, easy to lead, easy to sway. But a dragon…”

Arya shook her head. “I cannot explain it. It takes something out of you. It isn’t that they fight, not like a cat, but they can overpower one’s sense of self. You want to _be_ a dragon from the start. The hard part is remembering you want to be human again.”

"How did you?"

"I wish I could say my brothers or sister brought me back, but it was Nymeria who did. She did the same when I served the House of Black and White."

* * *

Arya wore her new tunic one fine warm day, and it fit well across her body. The stitched together direwolf turned out well enough to draw Sansa’s compliment. They went out to fish of all things. Arya sat on a sunlit rock, flicked her line into the running creek, and she sang happily into the midmorning air. Her voice was clear and surprisingly sweet, even if it was a ribald version of a classic.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“What vile thing have you done?” Sansa asked, her head balanced prettily on her palm. It was a rare thing to see her outside Winterfell’s walls, but she’d agreed to this little outing. Both sisters were relaxed in this setting.

Arya gave a laugh and tugged her line, shouting happily. “Ha, a fish!” She flung it out on the bank and unhooked it a moment before Nymeria took it in her mouth and swallowed it after two crunching grinds.

“Bitch!” Arya shouted playfully. Nymeria grinned and rolled her great body before nosing her head into Myrcella’s lap. Myrcella squeaked in shock at the heavy weight in her lap, but Nymeria only sighed and groaned contentedly. Mycella felt Sansa’s eyes on her, but she ignored it and placed a hesitant hand on Nymeria’s head. Her fur was soft, especially around her ears.

“Well, back to getting my own fish.”

“We have fish in Winterfell.”

“Not good fresh fish. Fresh fish is the best fish, cooked right here on the creek. Do you like trout, Myrcella?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You see? Bet you prefer to drown it in those heavy Dornish spices.”

“Fresh trout is good on its own merit. Really, the red-fleshed fish are best blackened in spices.”

“Ah, good taste. I’ve always kept a taste for Braavosi clams myself, though difficult to get them here without spoiling.”

Sansa gave a harsh sigh. “I never know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about food. Fish!”

This fish was safe from Nymeria, who was content to keep her great head in Myrcella’s lap. Arya took a moment to gut the fish and set it on a hot coal by the little fire on their creek. “Best breakfast in Westeros. For you, Lady Myrcella.”

Two more fish, and they shared their breakfast together, picking fish ribs from the flesh and teething the scales from the skin. It was a good morning, shared with these two strong Stark sisters who both seemed so content in this moment. Myrcella’s pleasure of that afternoon bled into her letter to her uncle:

_Thank you for sending me, Uncle. I love it here. Arya and Sansa have been wonderful hosts, and I am happy. I haven’t been happy in so long, but I feel it now. Thank you. Winterfell is my home.  
_

* * *

Arya promised her another three games of cyvasse the following week, but she demanded a ride through the woods for it. Neither was a chore for Myrcella, who acquiesced perhaps too eagerly. The day Arya chose was cool and gray, and a fine mist clung to the ground even in the late morning.

They rode across the fields and into the forest again. Arya’s horse high-stepped prettily as they navigated through the wood to reach a burbling stream. It was a lovely place, marked by a few worn masonry stones.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

“It’s so peaceful.”

Arya’s horse shifted sideways, and their shins brushed. Arya watched her for a long moment; it was Myrcella’s scarred side, and her hair was pulled away from her lack of ear in anticipation of a race. “Your bloody hair,” Arya told her with a slow grin.

“Pardon?” Myrcella asked in shock.

“Your hair is always so perfect. I have enough trouble pulling this brown mop up. I wouldn’t care, but Sansa gets her hair up if mine isn’t tamed, and it’s hell to tame on a misty day like this.” Arya took one of Myrcella’s curls in her fingers. “But your curls... You see?”

In that moment, Myrcella forgot to be self-conscious about her scar.

“How do you do that?”

“What?” Arya asked. She was beautiful and sharp, all laughter with white teeth and lovely gray eyes.

“Make me feel beautiful.”

Arya’s eyes flickered across her face, and her expression settled into gentleness. “There’s no doing. There’s only what is. I’ve never learned how to lie, you see.”

It was not a sword stroke. It wasn't a mockery either. Myrcella studied Arya and her wolf. She could fall in love here.

She shifted in her saddle, and Lyserna turned away to continue through the wood at a leisurely pace. Arya called, “Come along then.”

* * *

Arya beat her in their second game that night, a thing that startled Myrcella. She wasn’t used to being one move behind her opponent, but the checkmate fell three moves after she realized it would happen. A clever pattern, one she wouldn’t allow again.

“Do I win anything?”

“Have I won anything for the last four wins?” Myrcella asked.

“My wonderful company,” Arya retorted dryly. She sobered as they set up the next game. “I’ll be away for the next few weeks. Do find something safe to occupy yourself with.”

“Where are you going?”

“North. I’m surveying a wildfire, and I may travel north of the wall to see my other brother.”

Wild Bran, who Tyrion had been puzzled by. “Be safe.”

“I doubt I will, but I will consider the consequences of my actions.” Arya sipped her wine as she studied the board. She motioned. “Your move, sweet Myrcella.”

* * *

Myrcella came upon Sansa in the office in the Library Tower several days later. The room felt empty without Arya. Sansa’s desk was neat, and Arya’s was its usual chaos. Sansa glanced up at the stew and bread in Myrcella’s hands and smiled.

“Arya isn’t here.”

“This is for any Stark not eating.”

Sansa accepted the food and set it aside from her notes. The maester slipped out of the room when Sansa motioned him away. “Sit, Myrcella. It’s quiet in Winterfell without Arya. I could use the company.”

"You’re all are inseparable now, aren’t you? I never knew family could be so close.”

“We all are. The war sent us apart, and we fought too hard to return to leave again. The queen summons her south sometimes, but Arya always is back before I miss her. Jon comes North more often.”

It pricked at Myrcella, the thought that Daenerys loved Arya and the thought of Arya loving her back. Such strong unapologetic women would surely share a powerful relationship. Myrcella’s gut pricked harder when she recalled Elia Sand laughing about the queen being a lover of both men and women. Arya didn’t seem the type to turn away from such a relationship, though surely she would as a Lady of the North. But the Queen had ultimate power. Uncle Tyrion had spoken about that illicit rumor, hadn’t he?

How shocking to realize it in herself:  Myrcella coveted Arya and all of her loves in life. She wanted to come first.

Perhaps it was testament to the charisma of the youngest Stark sister. Another meek part of her whispered that she was falling in love with Arya. Or some form of obsession. She couldn’t find it in herself to do anything but acknowledge it. Arya, who was so rooted in the customs of the North, was unlikely to notice or reciprocate. Myrcella’s feelings would fade in time.

“Tyrion mentioned that there was a rumor about—” And then she remembered even Sansa featured in that rumor.

Sansa laughed, but her manner was cool enough to suggest she found this topic distasteful. “Yes, I’ve heard it, but we’re all siblings, if not by blood by family.”

“It didn’t stop my Uncle Jaime and my mother.”

Sansa studied her wordlessly, and Myrcella said, “Everyone knows who my parents are.”

“I don’t think any less of you, Myrcella.”

“I wonder sometimes if that’s why Joffrey was the way he was. Madness and power in one. Tommen was sweet, and mother always claimed I was too. But Joffrey…”

“He was a monster.”

“Sad to wish such a thing upon my own brother, but the world is better for his death.”

“It is,” Sansa stated calmly. “Better for your mother’s death. Better for your father’s death. The fact you and Tyrion are the last Lannisters suggests goodness may actually be rewarded in this world.”

* * *

Love or obsession? Myrcella had felt the prick of attraction before. She’d grown up listening to the Sand Snakes joke openly about sex with both men and women so perhaps it was expected that Myrcella’s gaze fell on women and her emotions attached to women. Perhaps Cersei had ingrained that into her with her lessons about the oppression of women by men, though Cersei had oppressed women more than any man in Myrcella’s life ever had.

No, Myrcella wasn’t surprised by her desire to be more to Arya. She’d assumed at first her desire was only for friendship, but gaining that odd relationship with Arya made her want more again.

She was no fool. Arya would never love her back, and that was fine. It would be a disaster, the youngest Stark Lady of the North sleeping with a bastard Lannister ward from Dorne. Myrcella’s roots were here, and a tumble on the mattress with Arya Stark was not worth tearing her roots out of the hard Northern earth.

She had suffered no sword strokes here yet, and it would take one to send her away from Winterfell. She wouldn't survive it.

* * *

It was two weeks before Arya returned, dressed in furs like a Free Folk and smelling like one. Nymeria was musty and more wild than Myrcella liked. She prowled and her eyes were quick, not the soft easiness Myrcella had come to understand.

Arya's absence only paused their nightly talks. Arya was waiting for her in the bath, and after they shared that bath, Myrcella sat by the fire with Arya. Nymeria lay at Myrcella’s feet. Her fur warmed Myrcella’s toes. Their conversation was oddly reminiscent of the one Myrcella had shared with Sansa in Arya’s absence.

Arya started it all with the question:  “Did you have a lover in Dorne?”

Myrcella blushed at the thought. “No. I’ve never had a lover.”

“Not Trystane?”

“No, the engagement was broken after…” Myrcella gestured to her face. “They kept me at the Water Gardens until my mother was dead, then I was allowed back at Sunspear doing very little of any importance. Even then no lover. I liked my books too much.”

“You think your scar limited propositions?”

Myrcella turned away. “What do you see when you see my scar?”

“Life,” Arya replied. “Life marked you. You’re not some porcelain doll gathering dust on a shelf. If Aegon wanted you, that scar made you more attractive, not less.”

“He might want my death.”

“Then he’s a bigger fool than he’s already proven.”

Myrcella wanted to be done with this tangent. “Did you have a lover? When you were a consort of Braavos?”

“Not then,” Arya replied after a long moment just looking at Myrcella. “Later, I crossed swords with a Dornish pirate captain. I beat her, and because of that she wanted me in her bed as her paramour. I told her if she sailed me to Valyrian Capital I would give her my maidenhead.”

“A woman,” Myrcella murmured. “Did she?”

Arya smiled mischievously. “She taught me a great deal about how pleasure is between two women.”

Myrcella supposed she should have been more interested in the thought of Arya lying with a Dornish woman. It gave her a mortifying jump of hope and a prick of dark emotion that she would rather not name, thinking of Arya with a lover. Instead of that tangent, she asked, “You went to Valyria and lived?”

Arya nodded, at once sober. “The only things there were ruin and wastes.”

“You didn’t find any Valyrian steel?”

“I didn’t go there to find Valyrian steel.”

“You hoped to find dragons.”

Arya nodded, looking into the fire. “And there were none. Meanwhile, dragons were crossing the sea to land on Westeros.”

“But you gave yourself to the captain anyway.”

This time, Arya smiled. “The wager wasn’t on me finding dragons, it was to sail to and from Valyria. And, well, I was curious.”

“Did you feel…sullied? To sell yourself that way?”

“I’ve sold more than my body before. It’s the last thing that will keep me up in the dark hours of the night. She took nothing that I didn’t offer, and not many women get that opportunity. I suppose I made an impression too. She sailed me right back to Westeros at my request.”

“What happened to you in Braavos?” Myrcella asked. She felt a true moment of fear as she faced Arya’s silent expression. “My uncle has called you faceless before. It’s the coin you wear around your neck, the order that made you blind, the one that taught you how to kill that debtor with poison on his coin. What did they do to you?”

“As you said, they taught me. They asked me to give up Arya Stark to be one of their order, and no matter how hard I tried, how heavily I lied, how much I tried to make that lie the truth, I could not do it. So I’m here.”

Anonymity didn’t suit this distinct, strong woman. “But surely this is better!”

Arya’s jaw clenched. “I failed,” she said, and Myrcella saw it then. Arya hated the weakness in herself that caused the failure, no matter if this was a better future for her than the other. She wondered what it was like to see every task a something that must be completed correctly. Perhaps Arya Stark simply did not give herself the option of failure. Perhaps life had not given Arya that option.

Arya untied her robes, and she parted them at her middle. Myrcella’s breath caught as the soft curve of her breast came into view, along with the defined flesh of her abdomen. She’d seen Arya’s body in the bath, but this was a deliberate baring. Arya pointed a slender scar beneath her left breast. “This was the mark of their order. Failed initiates owe a life.”

“How are you alive?”

“I gave them a life for my own,” Arya responded. “I knew the attack would come, and I dodged—not quite fast enough to save the scar, but fast enough for my life.”

“You’re alive.”

“Yes,” Arya responded quietly. Nymeria rose to her haunches and ran a soft lick along Arya’s neck. Arya put a hand on her great muzzle and shared a look with her wolf. “This is you,” Myrcella murmured. “The wolf of Winterfell.”

“You’ve been hesitating to ask me something all night. Ask, Myrcella.” The dark-eyed look she gave Myrcella was reminiscent of Jon Snow.

“I don’t want to offend you.”

Instead of a wink and laugh, Arya was sober. “You can ask me anything.”

Myrcella’s breath caught and her heart twisted. There was more to those words than she was willing to read. “Are you and Queen Daenerys lovers?”

Arya’s shoulders relaxed, and she leaned back. “I’ve never lain with her, though I suppose it’s not out of the realm of possibility if she asks me. A marriage though, I declined. I’m not sure she would entertain the thought for more than a passing moment.”

“But you’re no virgin.”

“I have desires like anyone.”

The question that sprang to mind didn’t cross Myrcella’s lips. She was afraid of the answer. She stood and set her goblet on the table by Arya. Nymeria lifted her head and nuzzled Myrcella’s hand. Arya took Myrcella's other hand and studied her fingers. “Making another tunic.”

“You destroy them so quickly.”

Arya kissed her fingertips. “Take care of yourself. And goodnight.”

Myrcella nearly stayed to answer the subtle question in Arya’s eyes. Instead, fear made her quietly say, “Goodnight, Arya.”

* * *

Gazing at the fire in her hearth, Myrcella was sure she had misinterpreted the question in Arya’s eyes, the kiss to her fingertips. Arya was not propositioning to her. She could hardly want Myrcella, who she’d sneered at for longer than she’d treated kindly.

She was a Northern Lady, as much as she claimed otherwise. Northern Ladies did not lie with other women when they were in Westeros.

But Arya Stark was also a consort of Braavos. She’d been Arry, Weasel, Salty, Blind Beth, Cat, Mercy, and she’d been no one. Arya Stark had lain with a Dornish pirate woman, and she knew more of the world than most Northern ladies. She did not suffer the confines of proper conduct.

Arya Stark was not a lady.

But Arya Stark did not come into Myrcella’s room that night. When Myrcella finally faded into sleep, she knew Arya would never want her.

* * *

The following morning, Myrcella pondered how or if she should write that odd interaction in her daily notes and decided against it. She was much removed from her disappointment from the night before and embarrassed by it in the light of day. Myrcella couldn't put any of that to paper to be discovered later. Instead, she wrote a summary of the weather. She jotted a few details to write to Arianne in her next letter.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Arya said as she crossed the gardens. Myrcella set down her book and smiled in pleasure to see Arya in such a good mood. She wasn’t surprised to be found; one of Arya’s cats had been sleeping next to her all morning. Arya made her heart’s pace pick up, but it was a happy thing.

“No work on your walls?”

“I’m done for the morning at least. I’ll be riding into Winter Town to verify our stocks there, but I’ve a few free moments.” Arya settled down next to Myrcella and plucked her book away. “What does Myrcella Baratheon read under a tree in the cool morning?”

Her expression softened and she handed it back. The lady in her shaped her next words: “Forgive me.”

“I like to document the passing days. Perhaps someday some great historian will use my journal to set his dates right for the great war.” Myrcella laughed. “Though my journal today is just about the lovely weather.”

“God help me,” Arya murmured, leaning closer to Myrcella. Her gaze was soft, settling somewhere along Myrcella’s mouth. Myrcella’s breath caught, and she went lightheaded when she realized where this would lead. Even in the light of day, there was no questioning Arya’s intent. Then Arya made good on her unspoken promise:  her kiss was a firm one. She tilted Myrcella’s head back and coaxed her mouth open, and oh…

“Don’t ride to Winter Town,” Myrcella murmured. She knew what she wanted now, knew it was possible—the Sand Snakes were no strangers to the act and didn’t mind describing their conquests. She wanted every dark thing they’d ever hinted at, and she wanted those things with Arya Stark. She would erase the Dornish pirate from Arya's memory with her own touch.

“Tonight,” Arya told her, kissing her again. She brushed her nose along Myrcella’s. “If you wish.”

“I wish. I want you.”

“Tonight,” Arya said again. She kissed Myrcella once more. “You’re too good for words.” She pulled herself away with a sigh and stood up. Myrcella was gratified to see her hands were shaking. “Tonight,” Arya said once more. Then she laughed. “I’ll probably bring back a report of sexy chickens and moist eggs for what you’ve just done to my concentration.”

Arya laughed again at Myrcella’s disgusted expression. “There, I’ve broken myself from that fog. Good day, Lady Myrcella.”

“Good day, Lady Arya.”

Arya laughed gaily and strode away.

* * *

That night, they took an early supper in their chambers but didn’t eat even after the sun had set and the food had gone cold. Instead, Arya stripped Myrcella naked and shucked her own clothing with little thought and pressed their bodies together on top of the soft coverlet in a heady sensation.

Myrcella kissed Arya’s small breasts, earning a gasp and laugh. “Who taught you that?” she asked, squeezing Myrcella’s thigh.

“The Sand Snakes—they talked about it.” She sucked on one of Arya’s nipples, causing another gasp.

“Good of them,” Arya murmured shakily.

Then her hand went between Myrcella’s legs, and her mouth was on Myrcella’s breasts. She hardly knew what Arya was doing to her with so many parts of her pleasured at once, and her body wrung itself out in a shocking finish. As the echoes of orgasm rippled through her, Myrcella found herself tucked against Arya’s body with Arya’s mouth moving against hers.

She kissed Arya back and cupped her cheek.

“Alright?” Arya asked her gently.

“I didn’t know it would feel like that.” Myrcella realized she’d felt no pain that everyone always described on the first bedding. “Shouldn’t that have hurt?”

Arya bit her neck sharply enough that Myrcella jumped. “I can make it hurt if that would make you feel better.”

“But I’ve never… What about all that talk about a maidenhead? I’ve never been with anyone before.”

Arya sat up. Her expression was incredulous. “You truly are innocent.”

Myrcella had no time to take offense to her words because Arya’s finger tickled between her legs. She gasped in pleasure and surprise. A finger slipped inside her. “Women are born with skin here, at the entrance,” Arya murmured, sliding that finger out and sliding around the rim of Myrcella’s sex. It was a strange sensation. Myrcella moaned and raised her hips. “But it’s just a bit of skin, and probably was torn while you were horseback or running or swimming, or whatever else you enjoy doing. Otherwise I’d have torn it sliding my finger inside you, here.” Arya entered her again. “I never felt pain on my first fuck.”

“But…” Myrcella’s hips continued to jolt, and she was annoyed at her inability to think straight. “Women…everywhere, they talk about pain. Surely many of them don’t have that…bit of skin.”

“Well, a pecker’s bigger than my finger. At least I would hope so,” Arya replied lightly. She slipped a second finger into Myrcella, another startling feeling—stretch and curious pleasure. “Bigger than this. And if a man doesn’t know or care to pleasure his lady first, she’ll hurt having something shoved inside without any warm up.”

Myrcella was struck by Arya’s wording. She laughed. “Warm up? Like what you’ve done to me?”

Arya’s smile was wicked. “And more. Like this…”

She slipped down Myrcella’s body, and oh gods, she was kissing Myrcella between her legs. The slippery wet heat of her tongue was so curious, and combined with Arya’s fingers steadily sliding in and out of her, Myrcella couldn’t hold on to the pleasure for long before she was tightened and gasping and finished.

“If all men pleasured women like you, septums would have a lot more to worry about.”

Against her belly, Arya laughed. She kissed Myrcella, who shivered at the taste of herself. Musky and pungent and very sexual. Delivered by this woman who was watching her with an uncharacteristic softness. Myrcella slipped her fingers through Arya’s hair and pulled her back for another kiss. She smiled as Arya teethed her lip.

“Tell me how.”

Arya’s hand wrapped around Myrcella’s and pulled her grip between her legs. Myrcella heard herself moan as she slipped her fingers through the swollen, warm wetness… Arya gently put pressure on Myrcella’s fingers at a certain place, and their hands moved together carefully. Myrcella watched their hands, then her eyes jerked up to Arya when she gasped.

“Good?”

Arya nodded, breathing heavily through her nose as she released Myrcella’s hand. “More, just like that, and I’ll come in a pinch.”

She did—in less time than Myrcella expected—with a harsh gasp and sudden relaxation. She pushed Myrcella’s hand away. “No more for me. Come, sleep with me.”

Myrcella settled next to Arya, taking a breath of her shoulder and hair. She wondered if she liked sharing a bed as much as the sex. She wondered if she’d pleasured Arya nearly as much as Arya had pleasured her. “Was it good?”

“Yes.” She pressed Myrcella’s hand between her legs to feel her wet warmth again. “I’ve wanted you for so long—since I saw you standing in the Great Hall, sunlight in your hair. Aegon must have felt the same way, but his lust sent you here, and I can’t help but thank him for his good taste. I hated you for that, for making me want you. You’re just so difficult to hate though.” Arya sighed. “We’ve much to learn together.”

There was much to contemplate about Arya's words, but one realization overrode all the others. “You’ve wanted this since I came?”

“Rather like one of those bawdy ridiculous love ballads, isn’t it? That burned. You made me stupid, part of a love story that would have made me gag as a child.”

“But so long?”

“They say the long hunt yields the sweetest meat. And you are unbearably sweet.” Arya grunted and shook her head. “See, I’m already whispering you sweet nothings. That means you must sleep with me.”

Myrcella touched her cheek. Arya had professed physical desire and then compared her to a love song. What could she read in that but something deeper than sex? “Wake me in the morning.”

Arya did not, but the bed was warm when Myrcella woke, and a purring cat was asleep on the pillow next to her.

* * *

She didn’t see Arya again until midday, and that was when Myrcella delivered a satchel of dry bread and cheese to her where she walked the ramparts with her mason master. Myrcella flushed red remembering Arya between her legs but delivered the food all the same.

“Good morning,” Arya said, accepting the food. “Thank you. Walk with us?”

“Oh, no. I should leave you. Not leave you, but for the afternoon.”

Arya’s smile was soft. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you this evening.”

Myrcella nearly tripped at the thought. She lived in a fog that entire day, a fog that didn’t lift.

Supper was painfully awkward. Myrcella had trouble looking at Arya without remembering her face between Myrcella’s legs—and their kisses. She wasn’t sure she managed to get through it without Sansa guessing.

Finally, she and Arya retired together—quite early, but she needed—Arya pushed her back into Myrcella’s room and the door clicked shut behind them as they tumbled into bed.

It was only after their passion faded that Myrcella realized Nymeria lay in front of her fire. The direwolf’s eyes were open, directed at the fire. One cat claimed each chair.

“Do they…know?”

Arya stirred and nuzzled Myrcella’s neck. "What?"

“Your animals? Do they know what we did?”

“No. No more than an animal does.” Arya sighed, her voice soft with sleep. Her feet—as cold tonight as they were last night—brushed against Myrcella’s legs. “It doesn’t go that way.”

“Can we keep doing this?”

“I certainly hope so. Kindly dissuade my sister from arranging an advantageous marriage for you, Lady Myrcella.”

“I told her from the start I don’t want that.”

“Lucky me.”

Arya was asleep a few minutes later. Myrcella settled into her arms and was determined to trust. She wouldn’t think about the consequences of this affair when it ended. Dead girls could not be happy, but lonely girls weren’t either.

* * *

Arya was a much better lover than a friend. She was forgetful, occupied by other matters, but when they were together, her attentions were on Myrcella only. Her lovers gifts were odd trinkets:  a sparrow’s skull, a wrap of vine, a slice of green bitter apple. Time passed quickly as they learned each other, and Myrcella found herself only wanting more.

Rarely did Arya spend the day with her, and when she did, she distracted Myrcella from what few duties she had. On one such occasion, Arya reclined by the fire as she watched Myrcella copy letters from Sansa’s rough drafts.

Arya was quiet for all of half a bell toll after she entered the room and took her seat. Then she sighed, looked at her over Nymeria’s great head, and said, “I suppose Sansa has you occupied penning a great long letter to a snooty lady in the south.”

Myrcella accepted the change in conversation for what it was. “My wrist aches already.”

Arya’s expression was wicked. “We’ll have to think of a way to increase your stamina then.”

“You’re vulgar.”

This was the expected result:  sex. Myrcella let Arya peel the pen from her hand, pleased at the interlude but pretending otherwise. She started to get up to go to the bed, but Arya pushed on her thighs firmly. “Stay. Like this. I’ll just lift your skirts—” Her hand was there then, and she kissed Myrcella hard. The chair thumped as they set their pace, and oh…

“That wasn’t my hand we just exercised,” Myrcella teased. Arya unlaced her breeches and sat on the edge off Myrcella’s desk, exposing herself completely.

“That’s not your hand either,” Arya laughed as Myrcella kissed her there. “Ah, there…” Myrcella added her fingers to the mix, and they both were carried away.

“I’ll never look at the desk in the same way again,” Myrcella stated after she stood to lean against Arya’s thin form. Arya sucked on Myrcella’s fingers to clean them, and then pushed Myrcella into the chair and shoved her skirts back. “Arya!” she laughed. “Surely you have duties—”

Arya’s mouth was on her, and she was firm enough that Myrcella knew she owed Arya another orgasm. Was this normal? Surely not; surely this was extraordinary. Arya was extraordinary.

* * *

Myrcella had lingering questions, questions that she was afraid to ask. From Arya, she was as afraid of a denial of knowledge as the answer itself. A list compiled, one she kept tucked into the back corner of her mind, too nervous to put it to paper. It was only after a month of being together and a particularly gentle session of making love that she was finally comfortable enough to ask, “Have you done this with a man?”

Arya sighed, her fingertips twining through Myrcella’s hair. “Done what?”

“Laying with one.”

“Mm… I’ve fucked one or two.”

Myrcella shifted, unsurprised but unhappy. A new worry cut through:  “Jon?”

“No,” Arya said. Something about her tone was off, but Myrcella was too afraid to push on that subject.

“Will you marry one day?”

Arya relaxed and laughed softly, her fingers keeping up their gentle pattern. “A man? No. Those few times were enough to know I’d not want one in my bed. I’d rather you.”

“But as a husband…”

“Men think they can own women. I don’t want that.”

“Is that why you’re with me then?” Myrcella asked defensively. “Because I can’t own you?”

“No,” Arya said quietly. Her voice was soft as she turned her head to kiss Myrcella’s lump of an ear. “No, but you do.”

“I do what?”

Arya murmured in her ear, “You own me.”

Myrcella felt a queer shift in herself. She lifted her head and saw vulnerability on Arya's strong, proud face. Every fear melted away. Myrcella responded, "I love you too." _  
_

Arya smiled.

* * *

The next traveling Arya had to do was a ride down to a hamlet south of Winterfell. She was gone for two nights, surveying the boundaries of properties there and “Probably hunting,” Sansa said with disgust. “And drinking and making bawdy jokes with the farmers.”

Arya returned fit and pleased with herself, stretching like a cat on her horse. She pulled Myrcella into a full-body hug in the horse’s stall and kissed the hollow between Myrcella’s breasts as the stablehand walked away to bring a flake of green hay for her horse.

There was promise in that kiss, and Myrcella was ready to collect on that promise after dinner. She fluffed her hair, arranging it over her shoulders, and touched scent to her neck before making her way over.

“Arya? Elia sent me a bottle of Dornish red. I thought you might like some over that tart juice we’ve been drinking. It’s actually a very good grape.” Myrcella stepped out of their shared bathing chambers and paused in front of someone unexpected, knowing how she must look:  barefoot in a loosely laced shift, her hair down at her neck, no dressing gown. She’d purposefully arranged herself to entice.

It was not Arya but Sansa who stood in the room. Sansa blinked at her as she surveyed Myrcella’s clothing and hair. She was slow to say anything, and her face was flat of affect, a look Myrcella was now unused to. From in front of the fire, Arya called Myrcella over. “We’ll finish that wine tonight and suffer for it in the morrow.”

“Sansa, would you like some?” Myrcella asked awkwardly.

“No, thank you. I was just about to retire for the night. I’ll see you in the morning, Myrcella. Arya.” Sansa’s look was long at her sister, but she left without saying anything else.

“Wine,” Arya commanded.

“Will she be upset?”

“No. She has no right to be, anyway. Come here.” Arya coaxed Myrcella to slide into her lap, and she pulled her down for a long kiss. “Actually, save the wine. I want a taste of you right now.”

* * *

Sansa sent for her one afternoon several days later, but instead of her study, she brought Myrcella into her room. Myrcella studied the grays and blues, the fur coverlet and the tapestry on one wall. Sansa's room was richer than Arya's but no less Stark. Myrcella accepted a goblet of wine, but she vowed not to drink much of it as she sat by the fire, trying to gird herself for whatever Sansa would say.

"I suppose you understand that your relationship with my sister is less than proper in the North."

"I know this isn't Dorne."

"Did you know that there was talk of Arya being wed to Jon and Daenerys? Every dragon has three heads." Sansa inflicted a wound with that statement, even as she continued more airily, "Though Daenerys would soon banish Arya back North. She's never been with her long enough to realize what a pain Arya can be. And Jon would never survive two wives. He's stifled enough with his first."

"But Arya wouldn't go?"

"She said if they had to discuss it that damn much, it was a shit idea to begin with. I doubt she'll ever change her mind. One of her faults, being so stubborn." Sansa studied Myrcella. "Is this a fancy?"

"I'll be with Arya as long as she'll have me."

"Be careful. Starks hold on and don't let go. She'll call you part of her pack and ask you to thank her for it."

"I've always wanted to belong to someone who loves me. I think I've come as close as I ever will."

"I care for you too, Myrcella. If this ends badly with Arya, you will still be safe here."

So she belonged to more than one Stark. Myrcella tightened her mouth against her tears and lowered her head in a seated bow. "Thank you."

"You're too sweet to be a Lannister," Sansa said with a smile. "I wasn't sure what to expect, but to see you release a cricket from the greenhouse and tell it 'goodbye' was certainly not it. And now you've charmed my wild little sister. It was your character that earned your place here, Myrcella. Don't discount that."

* * *

Nearly nine months into her life at Winterfell, Myrcella was excited to receive a letter that her uncle would be arriving soon. Sansa confirmed the date he would come a few weeks later.

“Are you looking forward to seeing your uncle?” Arya asked her one night as she smoothed Myrcella’s hair under her hand.

“I am,” she admitted, shifting to better view the book in her hand.

Arya brushed Myrcella’s hair so that it slipped behind her neck. Arya’s finger traced over Myrcella’s missing ear a moment later. She forced herself to relax and not react to the touch—for how little she could feel it through the heavy scar tissue.

“Come here.”

Myrcella pushed herself up to her elbows and obliged Arya by pressing their lips together in a soft kiss. Arya’s hands settled on Myrcella’s backside and squeezed hard; Myrcella collapsed on her with a bark of laughter. Arya’s grin was dark and mischievous, and she laughed too. Arya demanded one more kiss before she let Myrcella return to her reading.

* * *

Tyrion arrived in a small procession with little fanfare from the residents of Winterfell. He rode in a carriage and stepped out of it with a grunt and wince of pain. He bowed to Sansa and Arya, both of whom returned the gesture just enough to be polite.

He reached out for a hug with Myrcella, who held him close for a long moment. He was her last family, her favorite as it were. Sansa surprised them all by pulling Tyrion into a chaste embrace too.

“My Lady,” Tyrion said to Sansa, who smiled a true smile in reply.

“Ah, wine and roast pig,” he said, seeing the meal spread out for them in the Great Hall. “Journeys have a way of bringing the hunger out in a man.”

Myrcella told him, “I saved you a Dornish red.”

“You are my favorite niece from now on.”

“I’m your only niece.”

“Oh, you’re right. Well, I like you anyway.” He smiled. His eyes flickered to Sansa. “Lady Stark, how are you?”

“I’m well. How was your journey?”

“Oh, long. Cold. I’m looking forward to a warm bed tonight.”

Arya cleared her throat loudly. Her gaze fell to Myrcella’s and a mischievous smirk twitched the corner of her mouth. Myrcella couldn’t place why she would earn such a look, but she abruptly anticipated sharing Arya’s bed that night.

* * *

Tyrion’s knock on her bedroom door after dinner didn’t surprise Myrcella. She opened the door to admit him, and he paused in visible shock to see Arya sitting with her feet up on the fireside table. She stood, upset the cat in her lap, and excused herself.

He waited for Arya to leave the room before he settled in the chair she’d occupied. “I expected you to befriend Sansa, not Arya herself. Arya is the wolf that wants to eat you, I recall.”

She would not blush, nor would she laugh. Myrcella released her illicit humor with a cough as she pulled on a dressing robe. “All the wolves are friends,” Myrcella reflected. “Wine?”

“Why ask a question you know the answer to? It’s just a waste of air.”

Myrcella poured him a goblet. He stared into the goblet and shook his head. “Are you happy?”

The dappled cat took refuge in Myrcella’s lap as she said, “Yes.” The cat rubbed firmly against her neck and purred sweetly. She stroked it in return.

“So firm in your response. Are you happy I sent you here?”

“Yes, I am. I love this place.”

“And Lady Stark?”

Myrcella laughed into the cat’s neck. “Yes,” she said.

“And the other Lady Stark?”

“She would protest she’s no lady. But I like her very much. I’m _happy_ , uncle.”

“Will they send you away?”

“No. Winterfell is my home.”

“Well,” Tyrion said softly. “I’m glad, if surprised.”

* * *

Arya was affectionate that evening. She bathed Myrcella in slow caresses, kissed her neck softly as they soaked in the warm water, and wrapped her in her dressing gown. They shared a chair and wine, their legs intertwined—a prelude to their embrace later in bed.

And yet after that, Myrcella awoke alone that morning. The bed was empty even of her cats. Myrcella didn’t see Arya until midday, when Arya slipped into her room, looking rumpled and bringing the scent of horses and the cold air. She grinned as she said, “My lady, you read far too much.”

Myrcella propped her book back to fix Arya with her best baleful glare. “Books seem to be my best company in the morning, especially after waking up alone.”

Arya’s placid face broke out into a slow, white smile. She was beautiful, her face set alight by her merriment. “Shall I wake you next time, just before dawn, just to bid you a farewell you’re sure to forget when you do wake?”

“Perhaps you can just stay for the morning.”

“Is the lady truly asking me to forsake my sacred duties?”

Myrcella scoffed, enjoying their banter. “Please inform me of when playing with a wooden sword or riding a horse is considered a sacred duty.”

“I might have a wooden sword that made you call for the Sevens last night.”

“You liar!” Myrcella laughed despite herself. “It was your fingers that made me call for the gods.”

“Not my tongue?” Arya’s smile had slipped into an expression that made Myrcella lightheaded.

“Not last night,” she replied faintly.

“Perhaps this morning, to make up for your cold bed.”

“Arya—”

Arya was on her knees, pulling at Myrcella’s skirts, her fingers tugging on Myrcella’s smallclothes, and… Arya hadn’t even taken off her clothes; she had Myrcella’s skirt shrouding her. Myrcella could hardly bear to look:  Arya’s head moving beneath her skirt, the feel of her warm tongue, her hands clutching the edges of Myrcella’s skirt, her boots on the floor. Myrcella put her hand over Arya’s head through the wool of her skirt and leaned back, knowing that she would have to brush Arya’s hair and retie it after its friction with her slip.

This was wicked. Arya was wicked.

* * *

Myrcella didn’t see Tyrion until later that afternoon. She came upon him in Winterfell’s modest library. Tyrion saw her and raised an eyebrow, fighting either a smile or a grimace. He raised a finger to her, placed it against his mouth, and began to speak before turning away to stare out of the window. “I had hoped you have sense, Myrcella. Taking a lover discreetly is one thing, but having his head beneath your skirts with your chamber door unlocked is another.”

She felt her blood rush to her face as she remembered Arya’s head beneath her skirts…Arya wearing mail and boots. Arya hadn’t locked the door, and Myrcella had been too distracted to notice it open. “Oh, no, Uncle.” Then she remembered to be embarrassed that he’d seen them. “I beg apology for you to witness that.”

His eyes darted away in similar embarrassment. “Compared to most things I’ve seen, Myrcella, that was innocent.” He cleared his throat and looked up at her beneath his heavy brow. “Who? You must be careful.”

“Arya.”

The change that came over Tyrion’s scarred face was startling. He raised his hands again before turning away and clenching them. “You’re telling me that Arya Stark’s head was under your skirt this morning.” His hand slammed against the wall. “Arya _Stark!_  Are you a fool?!”

“You told me—”

“I told you to befriend Sansa, not lift your skirts for Arya Stark. She’s the _worst_ person possible in this scenario! What do you think she _is_ , Myrcella? If you knew half the things I’ve seen her do—” Tyrion cut himself off for a moment. “She is a warg—”

“Skinchanger,” Myrcella corrected quietly.

“Skinchanger,” Tyrion replied slowly, turning a disgusted look to her. “A mummer. A facechanger too—”

“No, not a facechanger.”

He went on unheeded. “Do you know what that means, child? An _assassin_!”

Arya had been sparse on details when she’d spoken of her training at the Black Temple, but Myrcella understood well enough what the faceless men did. She knew, and she knew Arya had killed in battle, for defense, for justice, and in cold blood…deaths that Myrcella could not condemn. And ultimately, she’d killed to release herself from the Temple of the Dead. She had used that dark magic before, but she was no facechanger now.

“I know.”

“You know?” Tyrion repeated derisively. “You don’t know. She is a weapon—”

“She’s a woman, Tyrion, and I love her. She loves me as well. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you know what she did to the Freys?” Tyrion pressed. “She fed Walder Frey his own children and then slit his throat.”

“Uncle, I lived with a monster through my childhood. I know what one is, and Arya isn’t.”

“It takes all kinds of men to be monsters.”

“They killed her family, broke the guest right. It was fitting. Grandfather did worse over a simple insult.”

“And your grandfather was a monster. She poisoned all of Walder Frey’s bannermen!”

“I’m safe here, Uncle.”

“Safe.” His scarred face shifted in sadness.

“She loves me.”

“You’re playing with fire. The queen and king love her, Myrcella.”

“I love her, and I'm here. They aren't.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Queen Daenerys will be riding North. So your assurance won't last long."

Myrcella didn't know how to take the implication in that statement. Later, she lay with Arya's head on her shoulder and smoothed her hair down absently, considering how Arya hadn't reacted when Tyrion announced Daenerys's coming trip North. Had she feigned indifference or meant it?

* * *

Tyrion left a few days later. His touch lingered on Sansa's hand, but he only had a mocking curtsey for Arya. His expression softened when he embraced Myrcella. She didn't care about the mud on her dress when she sank to her knees to hold him closer. "Thank you, Uncle."

"Apparently sending you here was one of my better schemes. Please be happy, Myrcella." He studied her before looking up at Arya. "Take care of her."

"We Starks protect our own here, and you Lannisters are ours whether you like it or not."

"Oh, how comforting. My very own direwolf clan," Tyrion said lightly. He gave Sansa one last long look before he climbed into the waiting carriage.

Winterfell saw Tyrion off without relief of a visitor leaving because preparations for Daenerys began immediately. Myrcella was caught up in preparations, sending carefully penned raven letters, inventorying supplies and food, and helping the maester oversee tax week. She was busy enough to ignore the worry that slowly built.

The night before Daenerys was set to arrive with her long line of carriages, Arya held her close. Her breath stirred Myrcella’s hair as Myrcella wondered what the following day might bring.

* * *

It was a beautiful dress, deep indigo, dark enough in color to still be a Stark look. Her hair seemed to soften into a velvet brown against it, especially worn with the soft braids drawing it back from her face. For once, Arya didn’t wear the high neckline she and most northern women wore under their dresses. It was plain and serviceable but almost indecent compared to Arya’s usual dress—when she wore dresses, that was. Her faceless coin fell visibly to sit in the soft hollow between her breasts.

It pricked Myrcella deep that Arya would wear this dress to see Daenerys Targaryen into Winterfell. Sansa was appropriately clothed—solemn and dark in her black and gray and heavy cloak, but Arya stood in an indecent dress without even a cloak to distract from her soft pale skin.

Myrcella asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

Arya cocked her head, smirking through her lashes at Myrcella. She looked…wicked and innocent and young and feminine. Myrcella blushed, startled by the rush of completely inappropriate arousal she had. She’d thought she’d finally recovered from the daze she’d wandered around in weeks after the start of their affair.

Arya’s smile widened further. “You’ll just have to warm me up later.”

“Please be appropriate. If you hadn’t said that, I would wonder who you are and what you’ve done with my sister.” Sansa wrapped an arm around Arya’s neck and pressed an uncharacteristic kiss to her cheek.

“I so rarely get the chance to put on a pretty dress,” Arya said in snide imitation of Sansa’s enunciation.

“You get a chance every day,” Sansa said just as snidely.

The two sisters straightened as the procession entered Winterfell’s inner keep walls, with Queen Daenerys at the head on her beautiful pale horse. Myrcella abruptly remembered Daenerys had spent enough time with the dothraki to become an excellent rider. It hurt to think of Daenerys riding with Arya. This jealousy would do her no good.

Daenerys dismounted and nodded to the two Starks. They each went on knee to her. Daenerys reached out to Sansa, who lowered her head with a flat smile. And then Daenerys turned to Arya. Her greeting was far more intimate, especially when she surveyed Arya for a long few moments of silence.

“How lovely,” Daenerys finally murmured, touching Arya’s throat with a finger, then leaning close to kiss Arya gently on the mouth.

The intimacy of it registered and so too would have the hurt, but the queen’s voice faded from Myrcella’s attention when she caught sight of the unexpected, so welcome woman standing a few meters behind Daenerys. Myrcella’s feet nearly took her forward, but she held herself back at last moment. Princess Arianne met her eyes and smiled softly. It was she who approached, and she pulled Myrcella into a long hug.

Arianne smelled familiar, and she felt like safety. It was strange to still have this reaction to a woman who had caused her so much pain, but Arianne was family in the way her Lannister family had not been.

Arianne cupped her cheeks, kissed her on the mouth, and then withdrew slightly to study her. “You look lovely. Is this how the North agrees with you, dear?”

“I’m very happy, Princess. I didn’t know you would come.”

“It was perhaps not well planned.” Arianne squeezed her hands, but something over Myrcella’s shoulder caught her eye, and she went still in wide-eyed shock. It was an expression Myrcella rarely saw on her face. She’d seen it once when the sword sliced like fire across her face.

Nymeria butted up under Myrcella’s arm and sat down, rising to nearly her shoulder in height. Her golden eyes fixed on Arianne’s.

“Arya.” Myrcella looked over her shoulder, and Arya stepped beside Myrcella. “Princess Arianne?”

“This is Arya Stark,” Myrcella introduced. Arianne’s eyes shifted from Arya’s direwolf to Arya herself, and they watched each other with stillness that made Myrcella nervous.

“Lady Stark,” Arianne finally stated, lowering her head in a bow.

“I’m no Lady,” Arya responded predictably. “Nymeria, come.”

Nymeria was rarely called by name by her mistress, and her ears perked. She turned inward, rubbing her entire body against Myrcella and flicking her tail against Arianne as she lumbered after Arya.

“What a lovely beast.” Arianne didn’t clarify if she meant Arya or her wolf.

“Come inside. You must be cold. I’ll lend you a cloak.”

“Yours is lovely.”

“Arya gave me the pelt.”

“Did she?”

Everyone was shown their rooms, but they were all neighbors either to the side or above. Arianne left her servants to drop her possessions in her room and followed Myrcella to her own. They sat in front of the hearth, which Myrcella stoked for knowledge of Arianne’s thin blood for the cold.

“Really, tell me how you are.”

Surprised Arianne would expect another answer, Myrcella said, “I’m really truly happy here.”

“Surrounded by direwolves, ice, and stone?”

“There’s a lovely greenhouse, and Nymeria is quite civilized. These stones are warmer than expected.”

“Myrcella.” Arianne took her hand. “You’re accommodating to a fault. I know you. I kept you locked away in the Water Gardens for over a year, and you only said how comfortable you were the entire time.”

“I’m happy. Arya and Sansa are wonderful. There’s a stocked library, and I dictate for Sansa. Arya takes me out riding and hunting, and it’s wonderful.”

Arianne got up to touch the cyvasse pieces, studying the half-finished game.

“Arya was dark.”

“She must have some talent for it to still have most of her pieces against you.”

“Yes.”

Arianne plucked up Arya’s dragon and studied it. “When will you be married off to a lord for them? How can you trust—”

“Arya wouldn’t let that happen.”

Arianne’s mouth tightened. “I did receive an interesting letter to that variety from her regarding the unspoken threat of Aegon. It was lust, not anger that made me send you away, in case you hadn't guessed.”

Myrcella was shocked. “But I’m scarred!”

“Increased your appeal to him. I didn’t want you coerced. Or at least I tell myself that. Your Arya’s letter did force me to make a few changes in my own rule. You’ve become important to her. She said… How did she put it? She said you were part of her pack. Who will she marry you to to keep you nearby?”

Myrcella couldn’t stop her blush. Arianne raised a dark brow. Abruptly, the dappled cat jumped into Myrcella’s lap and rubbed her face. Was Arya watching through its eyes? Myrcella couldn’t tell, though she wouldn’t be surprised when the cat sat in her lap and faced Arianne primly.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?”

Arya opened it, and the other cat wound its way into Myrcella’s room. Then Nymeria pushed past and lay down with a groan in front of Myrcella’s hearth. “Would you like to see Winterfell, Princess?”

Arianne’s eyes flickered from Nymeria to the cats and back to Arya. “Perhaps tomorrow, Arya.”

“Fair enough. I was going to ask you riding before I realized your ass is probably right sore. Myrcella,” Arya said, acknowledging her with a twitch of a grin. Then she was gone. All three of her animals were in the room with them. What could Myrcella read into that, especially given the queen’s gaze and kiss for Arya that morning?

“Why has the direwolf stayed?” Arianne asked, giving Nymeria a naked look of fear.

“She’s good.”

Nymeria yawned wide, showing huge white and yellow teeth.

“She’s a maneater. Tales of her running the Riverlands were explicit.”

Nymeria shifted closer and set her great head in Myrcella’s lap alongside the cat. She laid a tiny lick to Myrcella’s arm and sighed.

“Well, no better time for wine then, surrounded by predators.” Arianne motioned to the bottle she’d brought into the room. They both drank too much and spoke more as friends than their stations would allow.

When Arianne reached out to stroke Myrcella’s arm late that evening, the cat in Myrcella’s lap growled and swatted abruptly.

“Arya!” Myrcella said before she thought better of it. The cat’s demeanor changed immediately. She softened and began to purr, curling up in Myrcella’s lap once more. Arianne turned a perplexed look from the cat to Myrcella. She didn’t ask the obvious question.

* * *

It was late in the evening when Arianne retired to her room. Myrcella was a little muzzy from her wine, but it didn’t stop her twist of fear. She didn’t knock on Arya’s door. Arya would know she was alone, and she could come to her if she wanted.

But Arya did not come, even as Nymeria and the two cats shared her bed. She fell asleep late and unhappy, and she awoke alone. Did it mean that Arya had shared her bed with the queen that night?

She had breakfast brought to her room to avoid confirmation of her paranoid thoughts. Then she escaped to the gardens, hoping to lose herself in the warm earth and heavy greenhouse air.

Myrcella was startled to be pushed into a nook in the garden. Her cry of shock was muffled by a familiar kiss. Arya, she thought, knowing she should draw away even if it was because of her anger, but this felt like reassurance. Despite the shocking beginning of the embrace, Arya’s mouth and hands were gentle and unhurried.

“Oh!”

Arya paused, and then she pulled back. Daenerys stood nearby, her eyes wide as she took in their forms. “You’re _lovers_!”

“Is that a revelation?” Arya asked in a comfortably perplexed tone of voice. Myrcella pulled away to rearrange her skirts and wipe her mouth. She was altogether confused and embarrassed, which was only compounded by the fact Arya wasn’t.

“No, I suppose not.” The queen’s face shifted into a gentle smile, and she motioned. “Continue. I’ll take my leave. Lady Myrcella, Arya.”

“We should talk,” Myrcella said sharply as she watched the queen walk away.

“Yes,” was Arya’s uncharacteristically serious reply. She pulled Myrcella towards the Godswood and the privacy of that ancient place.

Arianne's sudden appearance made Myrcella want to laugh and cry. Was her life suddenly a romantic farce? Princess Arianne hastened forward with her gentle smile. “May I speak with you, Myrcella dear?”

“This afternoon, Princess. I’ll come to your chambers.”

Arianne’s smile dimmed, but she nodded. She looked to Arya, to the great wolf that lurked close by, and lowered her head in a gentle gesture to Myrcella. She said, “This place does suit you.”

After the great gate closed behind them, Arya said, “Your princess talks a great deal, doesn’t she?”

“Were you spying?” She lowered her voice. “Through a cat no less!”

Arya didn’t deny it. “Only insofar as making sure you weren’t whisked away. Why else would she have come?”

“To confirm I’m happy?” Myrcella said defensively. She ignored the brush of Arya’s hand against hers and strode off in the direction of the weirwood tree. She felt stretched to breaking, guilty for dismissing Arianne and angry at Arya for her selfish actions over the last two days, whatever her goals were.

“You love her,” Arya accused her.

“Yes, and you love Queen Daenerys. Did you wear that dress yesterday to entice the queen?”

“I wore it for you.” Then Arya mulishly admitted, “And to see you jealous. Serves me right.”

That was one worry broken. Arya caught Myrcella and pulled her back to wrap a firm arm around her waist. Myrcella let her. Arya was earnest when she spoke against Myrcella's neck. “I kissed you in front of her so she’d know you were mine.”

“As if she cares—”

“I care. I want your princess to know too. Why make this pretense? Why not just abandon that room? I have space for your books and writing. I’ll even suffer your lion on my wall.”

Myrcella was startled by where this conversation had gone. She'd spent the night certain Arya was with Daenerys, and now Arya was asking her to...move her possessions into Arya's room? She pulled away to face Arya. “My books? What are you talking about?!”

"Live with me!" Arya said. "Sleep in my bed, write on my desk, sit by my fire, dress from my wardrobe."

"My books, writing, sigil, _and_ my clothing?" Myrcella stared at this confusing woman.

“Yes, as enticing a thought as keeping you naked.”

Why couldn't she have just asked instead of this stupidity? Myrcella felt what Sansa often processed:  Arya could be a child about certain things. Despite her exasperation, Myrcella's affection for Arya overruled. She took Arya's hands. “Arya, we don’t dare.”

“I’ve dared a lot. And who do we fool? Who doesn’t know already? Arianne, Sansa, Daenerys, Tyrion?”

“You planned all of that, didn't you? Why not ask me first instead of making me the object of embarrassment—"

"Are you embarrassed by me?"

"No! I'm terrified of the propriety of the North! This isn't Dorne, Arya. This isn't Braavos."

"And yet here I am, and here you are."

"We can't—"

"Keep the bloody room then!" Arya snapped, turning away. She rubbed a hand over her sword's pommel, and her shoulders seemed so strong in her leather doublet despite her small stature. Her physical strength hid vulnerability, but Myrcella knew Arya well enough to read the hurt in her frustration.

"I like having my own space, Arya,” Myrcella said quietly. “And I love sharing your bed. I like having both. That doesn't mean I’m not yours. I won't be with anyone but you. Why didn't you just ask me that instead of creating this chaos?”

"I didn't mean for Sansa or Tyrion to know. Daenerys will protect us though."

"Then why not tell her instead of _that_?"

"Because I wanted to kiss you." Arya's jaw tightened, and she took Myrcella's hand again. “Keep your room then. Just sleep with me every night.”

Myrcella studied this perplexing woman. Arya remained earnest. “Myrcella, we shouldn’t have to wonder where the other is sleeping. Or who’s in each other’s bed. That’s why didn’t come to me last night, wasn’t it? It’s why I had Nymeria with you all day.”

Myrcella tried to pull her hand away. “Arianne and I are _not_ lovers.”

“And yet had she suggested it in the Water Gardens, would you not have chosen her?”

Myrcella folded her arms, remembering the comfort of Arianne sharing her bed that last night. She had always thought Arianne was beautiful, and while attraction had never been conscious, it was there. “Oh.”

Arya’s gray eyes flashed as she leaned closer and murmured softly. “I know the thought has occurred to her. No woman kisses another like she kissed you without thinking of opportunities for more than a kiss.”

“Her kiss wasn’t like yours, Arya.”

Her voice took on the brogue of the north. “I wasn’t just wonderin’. I was askin’ with that kiss.”

That was the Arya she knew. “And I answered because you asked. Though I might have asked myself if you waited any longer.”

Arya smiled and pulled her closer. “So here we are. Together. The way we should be every night.”

Myrcella studied this strange, dangerous woman and finally said, “Yes.”

Like most things in this ancient magic place of Winterfell, it was an oath forged in more truth than one might guess. Myrcella knew that Arya saw it for that quiet truth. “Lannister weds Stark,” Arya murmured quietly. “Even if in secret, the old gods know.”

“And your one true god?”

Arya smiled and leaned close for a kiss. “Well, we’ll tell him, ‘Not today.’”


End file.
